


Iron & Vein

by Feyland



Series: Vampires of Paris [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Drugs, M/M, Patron-Minette - Freeform, Sexual Content, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/pseuds/Feyland
Summary: When it comes to youth and blood, Montparnasse is no stranger. But in a dark club, he meets a dark stranger with the power to give him infinites of both. Few cravings have ever been stronger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunfreckle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for alcohol, kissing/grinding, club stuff

Montparnasse had selected the club because it had a dress code. He remembered the social media uproar the year before when _Éphémère_ had announced the policy change. No t-shirts. No running shoes or flip-flops. Black jeans were passable only because it was always too dark to discern the material. Many young people, filled with the righteous fury of what they considered an unforgivable slight, had boycotted the place. Montparnasse was quite pleased at the result: the pulsing company he kept that night felt comfortable to him as he moved.

The warehouse building was drenched in urban underground glamour. The lights flashed in dark purples and reds, the music being pumped out just a little odd - a far cry from pop music and beer-sticky floors Montparnasse imagined the students of Paris were currently experiencing.

He felt sleek and attractive. His hair was longer than he usually let it get, and jet black. He had left it loose, running his hands through it as he danced, to several appraising looks in his vicinity. He wore no shirt under the well-fitted buttoned vest that swirled with dark embroidery, leaving pale arms and a strip of torso exposed, proudly displaying an impressive gallery of ink. His feet ached in his heeled boots, but the aesthetic was glorious, and he reveled in the new reaches of his height. His tight leather pants would be a nightmare to peel off later, he knew. Maybe he would find someone to take them off for him.

He certainly had options. Around him, counterculture brushed close. The woman with the blunt green bob and a tangle of vines tattooed across her cheek who had slowly blinked like a cat when Montparnasse had met her eye. Or the man with the white contact lenses and plunging neckline who had ground up against him, the smell of his cologne just subtle enough for Montparnasse to pick up on once he had moved away. Truely, the club was filled with beautiful people, and Montparnasse knew he must have topped the list, dancing with his head thrown back, neck exposed, lips open in a display of dionysian debauchery.

One pulsing song bled into the next, and Montparnasse took the shift in the music to slip off the dancefloor towards the bar. A pause for a drink was the perfect opportunity to see and be seen. The club’s liquor was cheap but strong, and the sharp juniper taste that took the lead in his gin and tonic felt wonderful on his tongue. He cast his gaze out around the club, watching with an electric contentment the crowd of bodies that rolled like a wind-blown sea.

The outskirts of the dance floor he scanned more slowly, looking for someone interesting-looking that he could perhaps lure into his web. Something snagged at the edge of his vision. Along one industrial wall, Montparnasse found a set of eyes already on him, watching  him watch the room. The contact sent a shiver down Montparnasse’s spine, as though the sweat on his back had suddenly cooled. The man staring back at him was tall, his black-clad frame as long and dark as a shadow. Long, straight black hair was loose and shining. Despite the press of moving bodies filling the club with sticky heat, he wore a jacket with a high collar that Montparnasse couldn’t help but appraise as he took in its owner.

He lifted his glass to his lips, breaking the eye contact for a second, planning his next move. The plan was startled out of his head, though, when he looked back again. The man had acted first, crossing the room far more quickly than Montparnasse expected. He blinked, brow creasing. The alcohol seemed to be hitting him harder than he thought.

He had little time, then, to prepare as the man stepped up to him.

“You’re a pretty thing,” the stranger said, in a voice far too quiet for the bone-rattling noise of the club. And yet, Montparnasse heard him perfectly, and couldn’t help preening under the man’s words.

“Buy me a drink?” he said in response, letting his lips fall into a soft pout, the way he knew showed off their pinkness, their plumpness.

The man smiled at him, hungrily. Montparnasse had seen that look dozens of times before - it was unmistakable.

 _I want him to devour me._ The words ran through his mind unbidden, and he shivered at the intensity of the invasive thought. He watched the man turn his back to Montparnasse, approaching the bar. A small crowd vied for the bartender’s attention, but she turned towards the man immediately, taking his order as though they were the most beautiful words she had ever heard. Montparnasse pursed his lips, watching. He could understand her fascination. But he could also resent her for it.

It dissipated quickly as the man turned back to him, drink in hand, ignoring the bartender’s lingering gaze. He handed the dark drink to Montparnasse, who held it up in a toast. The man hadn’t gotten anything for himself, but he nimbly pulled out a concealed flask to raise to Montparnasse’s drink.

Montparnasse smirked. They drank. Rum and spice mixed in his mouth and warmed his throat, tasting far better than the other cheap drinks he had had that evening. He downed it greedily, savouring each drop but suddenly desperate to have his hands free.

“Dance with me,” the man said, a demand, not a request. Montparnasse felt himself nod, the movement making his head swim a little, and let himself be guided onto the dancefloor.

“Tell me your name,” the man said into Montparnasse’s ear as they joined the crowd.

“Montparnasse.” It felt good to say it. He felt in that moment like he would tell the man anything he asked for.

“Like the cemetery. Charming.” The stranger grinned.

Montparnasse swallowed. “Yours?” he managed.

“Claquesous.”

“Claquesous,” Montparnasse repeated.

Claquesous took one of Montparnasse’s hands in his - they were ice cold. Montparnasse didn’t have the time to consider this, though, as Claquesous spun him sharply so that Montparnasse had his back to him, and rested a hand on Montparnasse’s waist. The music pushed at them, and they began to move, equal parts smooth and sharp.

Montparnasse felt the press of Claquesous’s body against him, and he leaned into it. His head fell back towards Claquesous’s shoulder, and he let out a sharp breath as Claquesous read his invitation, grinding up harder against Montparnasse’s backside.

Montparnasse couldn’t help but smile at the thrill of desire held between them, and he felt goosebumps rise on his skin when Claquesous’s breath ghosted down his neck. It felt cool, though the rest of Montparnasse was burning. He tilted his head back further, shut his eyes, and let his tongue gently run along his top lip. His pale neck, he stretched, inviting the press of Claquesous’s lips against it. He basked in the feeling, his heart pounding in time with the music and the light flashing beyond his eyelids.

The noise he made when Claquesous pulled away was unplanned and indignant. His eyes fell open, and it took him a moment to realize Claquesous was waiting to to be seen before he leaned in to kiss Montparnasse.

Still tilted with his back to Claquesous, the kiss made Montparnasse feel dizzy, and he was glad for the firmness by which he was held. The hand on his hip had tightened into a hard grip, and Claquesous’s other hand had made its way up to touch Montparnasse’s cheek, angling his face in closer. Claquesous’s mouth, at least, was warm, his lips impossibly smooth. He kissed Montparnasse hard, and let his hand slip from cheek to throat. It rested lightly, the heel cradled in the hollow of Montparnasse’s throat.  They were moving to the music still, swaying on autopilot - Montparnasse’s mind, at least, was otherwise occupied. Claquesous, though, had all the control, and even deep in a foggy embrace, something in Montparnasse rejected that. Turning quickly in Claquesous’s firm grip, Montparnasse brought them face-to-face, pushing himself flush against the other man, reaching up to catch his lips again.

Behind him, somebody wolf-whistled.

Eventually, Montparnasse needed to come up for air. His body was still pulled firmly against Claquesous, but he tipped his head back to look up into the man’s face as he caught his breath. The lighting changed Claquesous’s features with every beat, and Montparnasse felt an intoxicated awe at the way the amber eyes seemed to flash too.

“You want to come back to mine?” he found himself asking, still breathless. “It isn’t far.”

“Lead the way.”

 

They were mounting the stairs to Montparnasse’s flat without him having much memory of getting there. He cursed himself at the realization, deciding he would need to down as much water as he could once inside to sober up. He didn’t want the night to end because he was too drunk to fuck. He wanted, desperately, to have Claquesous’s hand again on his neck, to be stripped down by cold fingers that made him feel like he was on fire.

He struggled with his keys and the sticky door, but he managed to jiggle it open, dragging his aching feet inside. He braced one hand on the wall as he struggled out of his boots, knowing he looked less than elegant. He felt his face heat, embarrassed to have an audience.

Claquesous hovered in the doorway, watching Montparnasse with an unreadable expression.

“Come on, come in,” Montparnasse said, annoyed.

Claquesous smile was hungry again as he stepped over the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wouldn't exist without the influence of Sunfreckle's Sweet Like Blood, Sugar vampire universe. While I'm not writing in that specific universe, this is still heavily inspired by her amazing works so uuuugh yall should get on that.
> 
> Rating for future chapters.
> 
> Also, bc I need everyone to have a visual, Montparnasse is wearing the Cubist Cupcake boots by Fluevog in black velvet which are beautiful and Extra AF. 
> 
> Leave me a comment!! or hit me up on tumblr! I'm feyland there too!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for talk of alcohol, allusions to date-rape drugs and sexual assault (NO actual use of either), some mild sexy content, and uuuh blood and blood drinking.

Montparnasse woke when a strip of sunlight fell over his face. He groaned, rolling away from the offending brightness, pissed off at himself for forgetting to fully close the blackout curtains. It was only when he had pressed his face into his pillow that he realized the bed was empty.

Not that many people he brought home stayed over. But memories of his night with Claquesous came to an abrupt end once they had reached the bedroom. Montparnasse felt suddenly frozen, willing himself further awake in order to force out a recollection. He remembered Claquesous coming into the apartment, shutting the front door behind him. He remembered being pressed up against a wall in the hallway, caught in a filthy kiss. He remembered Claquesous’s hand resting lightly on the back of his neck as Montparnasse guided them both to his bed. He remembered Claquesous’s smile - predatory. 

And then nothing. 

His head was heavy, and a pounding was growing in his temples. His body felt tired and a little weak. He must have blacked out, though the amount of alcohol he had consumed didn’t seem nearly enough to knock him out cold. 

Claquesous had brought him a drink, though. 

Montparnasse began to shake, afraid to open his eyes and try to work out what had happened the night before. He tried to steady himself with a breath, but the was little air to be had buried in the bedding. Slowly, he pushed himself up, and his heart stuttered. 

He was tangled in the covers, barefoot but otherwise dressed. The tight leather pants he had been proud to show off the night before were now digging uncomfortably into his waist. His vest was still buttoned, and he could see the impression of the brocade on the skin of his arm where he had pressed it to his chest. Carefully, he unbuttoned his trousers, and began the struggle of taking them off. There was no way they had come off the night before. The insides were damp and sticky with sweat when he finally managed to strip them off inside out. It would have taken a lot of determination and effort to pull them off of a blacked-out drunk, let alone put them back on one. 

Claquesous must have left when he found Montparnasse too drunk. Embarrassment burned in Montparnasse as he considered it, imagining scorn painted on Claquesous’s face. He had managed to drag himself towards the edge of the bed - he needed a shower, desperately - when he saw the stain. It wasn’t large. The splotch looked black against his dark sheets, but when poked at it experimentally, his fingers came away with the distinct colour of partially-dried blood. Immediately, Montparnasse’s hand flew to his face, trying to discern where the blood had come from. He couldn’t find a spot particularly painful to the touch, and no wound seemed to have sprung up in the night. Maybe he had had a nosebleed, too drunk to register. He wiped a hand over his face again, but found no evidence. 

Annoyed, he decided to deal with the ruined sheets after his shower, and he finally stood, feeling stiff joints popping as he stretched. The hot water was a relief, washing away the subtle coat of grime that followed him home from the club. But even as the evidence of the night before was scrubbed from his body, Montparnasse found that his mind did not follow. The image of Claquesous’s intense expression in his mind’s eye sent a shiver down Montparnasse’s spine. The man had been handsome, of course, but it was more than the shape of his cheekbones and the length of his fingers that were caught in Montparnasse’s mind. Something like desire still ran strong in his veins. Such a feeling had made sense in the club in the middle of the night, dancing with hands holding him with just an attractive amount of possession. But those feelings were meant to disappear in the daylight, burned off like mist. It was uncomfortable, how strong the want was. He didn’t understand it, and he tried to brush it off, dismissing it as unresolved horniness. It didn’t mean more than that.

 

That theory lasted until he was again approaching the entrance to Éphémère. He had spent most of the day trying to forget about the stranger in the club, and the way his whole body rang with residual energy every few minutes when his mind betrayed him with memories of cool hands on his hips and throat. He had not consciously planned on returning to the club, even as he had spent more time on his eyeliner than a regular nighttime walk would warrant. He could hear the low pounding of music coming from inside, and he could feel is mirrored in his chest and throat. A few feet from the entranceway, a familiar shape leaned against the brick wall, watching Montparnasse through the smoke of a cigarette. A jolt of quick panic spiked through Montparnasse, but he pressed it down with a breath, trying his damndest to inject confidence and swagger into his gait as he approached.

“Evening,” Claquesous said. His voice was all smoke and velvet, and Montparnasse wanted to drink it like a man dying of thirst. Instead, he painted a half-smirk onto his lips and and held out a hand for the cigarette. 

Something tugged on the corner of Claquesous’s mouth as he handed it over, watching Montparnasse intently as he took a drag. 

“Terribly sorry about last night,” he said, hoping he was coming across much smoother and more sure of himself than he felt inside. He tucked the embarrassment and awkwardness deep into the black hole he used as a home for uncomfortable feelings. “I don’t recall much beyond my front door. I don’t suppose you you could enlighten me?” 

“I didn’t stay long,” Claquesous said, amused. “Didn’t want to impose - it seemed your attention was thoroughly directed towards your pillow.”

Montparnasse nodded, relieved. He could imagine the things he might have ended up saying in that state should Claquesous have lingered. 

“I have to confess, I drawn back here tonight to see if you would show up. I’m stone-cold sober now, and you’re just as attractive as you were last night. If you wanted to surrender your time to me a second night in a row…”

“Surrendering would imply conflict. You assume I’m not here for the same goal?”

Montparnasse felt his breath catch; the way Claquesous’s voice affected him was obscene. 

“Excellent,” he managed to choke out. “Did you want to go in first? Or pick up where we left off?”

“I’m eager to get better acquainted.” 

“Alright then,” Montparnasse said, and turned on his heel, trusting in Claquesous to follow. 

 

Montparnasse reached for the light switch as the apartment door closed behind them. He didn’t make it. A quick hand darted out to grab his wrist, turning him easily as he was crowded against the wall. 

“I do remember this part,” he breathed as he felt Claquesous close in on him. Cool fingertips ran down his jaw, and then tilted it upwards, as though Claquesous was studying him in the pitch dark. Impatient, Montparnasse reached out blindly, finding Claquesous’s hips and pulling their bodies together. When Claquesous finally kissed him, he was aching for it. The kisses were hard and rough, an invitation and a promise. Claquesous did not seem too keen on gentleness, and Montparnasse let his frustration with himself bleed into the rush of lips and teeth. 

He let Claquesous manhandle him towards the bedroom, trying not to stumble as he was backed onto the bed. The curtains were open, and the street lights painted the room orange, far brighter than the hallway had been. Montparnasse sat on the edge of the bed, one of Claquesous’s knees between his legs. Claquesous was still standing, looking down on Montparnasse, smiling darkly. 

Montparnasse’s patience had never been strong. He did not like to wait for the things he wanted, and he already waited an entire night and day for this. Quickly, he shucked off his shirt, and leaned back on his elbows to let Claquesous take him in while he bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. 

The hunger in Claquesous’s face was punctuated by the slightest lick of his lips before he descended onto Montparnasse. His hands were still cold, and Montparnasse’s body erupted in goosebumps as they ran over his exposed skin. His breath was growing shaky. Scrambling back up the bed, he tugged Claquesous with him, giving them both more space on the mattress. Claquesous moved to hover over him, his knee pressed into Montparnasse’s groin. One of Claquesous’s hands was running over Montparnasse’s hip, ghosting over the button of his trousers, before travelling up Montparnasse’s body, coming to rest on his throat.

Montparnasse groaned. Claquesous stole it from his lips with a hard kiss. He then dragged it downwards, his mouth working over skin, into the curve of Montparnasse’s neck. The breath on his throat was Montparnasse’s undoing, and he failed to hold in a low whine.

That was when the teeth pierced his throat, as thin and sharp as needles.

The noise in Montparnasse’s throat crested into a surprised cry, his body suddenly calling on all its animal senses to flee. He obeyed. He rolled left, hard, focused on making it past the hand still resting lightly on his throat. The movement was enough to dislodge the teeth from his neck, but he felt them tear at the skin as he pulled away. He was on his feet quickly, a sticky hear running down his throat, and stared at the thing on his bed. 

The light from outside illuminated Claquesous in sickening detail. Blood stained his chin, and dripped down onto the mattress. Between his grinning lips, two long fangs were painted black in the semi-darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the sun came up and Claquesous started to sparkle and then they had a baby names Babmerjonine


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for lots of blood and biting and also sexual content.  
> You know, the reason ur here. 
> 
> This is where the E rating comes in, folks. 
> 
> Also, slight issues of the potential of forced 'consent' but none is actually involved. All parties are very very into what's going down.

Wild panic and disbelief hit Montparnasse in turn as he stared at Claquesous. He held a hand to his neck, pressing against the wound where the man’s teeth had been. He had rolled the wrong way, he realized, and was now trapped in the far corner, with the bed and Claquesous between him and the door. 

“What. The fuck,” he managed to choke out, his voice sounding high with fear. He felt sick, especially as Claquesous casually licked at his lips, savouring Montparnasse’s blood on his tongue. 

“Not acquainted with many vampires, I take it,” Claquesous purred, the vibrations hitting Montparnasse like the crack of a whip. “I’m surprised, honestly. You’re just so tempting. I’m shocked nobody has taken the chance to taste you before.”

“You’re-” Montparnasse shook his head hard, trying to dispel the words mixed with the evidence before him. “This is impossible”

Claquesous was lounging on the bed, watching Montparnasse without ever dropping his smile. 

“Fortunately not,” he said. “I do rather enjoy my existence.” 

Montparnasse’s mouth was bone-dry. His eyes flicked from Claquesous’s face to the door and back again.

“I really wouldn’t bother if I were you,” Claquesous said silkily. “Least of all because it would be poor manners. You did invite me in, after all.” 

He moved then, so quickly that Montparnasse didn’t have the chance to cry out in the time Claquesous left the bed and when he had once again crowded Montparnasse against the wall. Any noise was cut off by frozen terror that stuck in his throat as he stared open-mouthed up at Claquesous. Up close, he could see the fangs better, two long, thin canines set into a mouth of normal teeth. They couldn’t have been there before. He would never have been able to forget them.

“Your taste is addictive,” Claquesous said to him, his voice dropping into a lower tone. “I don’t often go back for seconds. You’re an exception.”

“You did this to me last night,” Montparnasse breathed. 

“Yes. I drank my fill and was on my way. Why I am still hungry for you, now that is the mystery.”

“I can’t remember anything.”

“I made you forget.”

“How?”

Claquesous stepped back, giving Montparnasse some air though he still struggled to breathe. 

“I can make people do what I want them too. Convenient when you like to play with your food.” Claquesous’s eyes met Montparnasse’s. “Come here,” he said.

Montparnasse felt a hard pull between his ribs, as desire poured into his mind, begging him to obey. He took a step forward. 

“Good,” Claquesous purred, taking another step back, as his gaze again pulled at Montparnasse. 

Montparnasse wanted to move, wanted to follow Claquesous to the ends of the earth if he asked it. Wanted to approach wanted to please wanted to obey. Beneath the screaming want, his heart pounded.

He pushed back instead. 

It was like a rope had been cut, sending him forcefully back against the wall, panting with an exertion out of proportion with the movement.

Claquesous stared at him, cocking his head. “Interesting,” he said quietly. Taking another step back, he seated himself back onto the bed, never taking his eyes off Montparnasse. 

“We can still both get what we want tonight,” he said. “I want to feed. You want to feel. I can make you feel better than you ever have before.”

Montparnasse’s teeth were clenched too tightly to speak. His head was feeling fuzzy.

“I imagine the venom is starting to kick in,” Claquesous continued. “It’s meant to make the feeding more comfortable for you. But it also tends to make feelings of pleasure...more intense.” That smile again. “Significantly.” 

Montparnasse shivered, though not from fear. Claquesous was right. There was a warmth spreading from his throat that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. 

“Will it turn me into a vampire?” he asked hoarsely.

“No.”

“Is this going to kill me?”  
“No. It won’t hurt you either. It would be a shame to lose such an intoxicating source.”

Montparnasse’s heart was starting to slow - a byproduct of the venom, he supposed. The desire to be touched was not, though. That was his own natural reaction. And it had not dimmed even when the monster smiled down at him. 

“You’re not controlling me?”

“No. It seems you have a knack for resisting it anyway.” 

The want was all his, then. 

“Okay. Make me feel good.”

Claquesous’s smile split into a hungry grin. He beckoned to Montparnasse, who approached on shaking legs, though at his own volition. Standing in front of Claquesous, he looked down at him, taking a breath. Then, he reached out to take one of Claquesous’s hands onto his hip while he unbuttoned his jeans in the same moment. If vampires needed permission to enter, Montparnasse was going to be sure to issue the invitation. 

Claquesous’s fingers were like cold marble as they made quick work of the pants, leaving Montparnasse exposed and chilled and thrilling, terrifyingly, within Claquesous’s control. And every inch of him was willing.

Claquesous’s eyes ran down his body, filled with wicked delight. In an instant, Montparnasse was on his back on the bed, almost winded by the speed at which Claquesous had put him there. Beside him, Claquesous had stretched out fully clothed, watching him closely. 

“Go on, then,” Montparnasse rasped, and shut his eyes. When the fangs pierced his skin again, he didn’t hold back the whimper it pulled from him. There was no pain this time, the anticipated sensation lost in the rush of pleasure that came with the contact. Claquesous’s lips were hard on his throat, sucking at the new wounds in a way that would have turned Montparnasse on, venom or no. He sighed into the feeling, and brought a hand up to the back of Claquesous’s head, an encouragement as much as a safeguard. He was disgruntled, then, when Claquesous pulled back, and he almost said so until he felt the shift to the other side of his neck, and cried out when the teeth sank in again, hard. If the sharp heat included pain, Montparnasse was not in the mind to say. His back arched off the bed, the sound from his throat descending into a long moan as Claquesous’s tongue followed the curve of his throat. At the same time, cool fingers landed on his stomach and began to slide down. He raised his hips upward, desperate for some kind of pressure to match the feeling on his neck that was sending his head spinning. 

The hand slipped between his legs, and Montparnasse keened, gripping, pulling at the long hair tangled in his hand, trying to express the feeling despite losing all sense of language. Lips still firmly on his neck, but he heard a low laugh in his ear, and he whined again, shivers running through his body between the two points on which Claquesous was focused. He had shifted, holding himself over Montparnasse, one hand pressing down on Montparnasse’s chin, sticky and damp. The other coaxed the roll of Montparnasse’s hips into a stuttering mess. 

Another moan fell from Montparnasse’s lips, and he tugged hard at the hair. Too hard, maybe, because the hand on his throat pressed down sharply, cutting off most of his air. A snarl in his ear stole the rest of it, and as the hand between his thighs grew rougher, Montparnasse followed his body’s ascent, desperate in every second for more while wanting the feeling to stay suspended forever. 

The heaving shudders that breached in him were indescribable. His body jerked hard, writhing under Claquesous’s hands. His cry was soundless, though he could feel the strain against his vocal chords from what he could only assume would have been the sound of pure ecstacy. He didn’t feel Claquesous lift the pressure on his throat, but when he finally took a shaking breath, he let it out again in a long sob. He heaved a few times, trying to come back to his head, though it felt impossible for him to do more than float just outside of it. One hand still circled lazily below his pelvis, the touch like a live wire. Claquesous had drawn back from Montparnasse’s neck, though, watching him with an unreadable expression as Montparnasse opened his eyes. 

_ More _ , he thought as he took in the blood running over Claquesous’s lips and down his chin. More, more,  _ more. _

“Please,” he croaked, unable to choke out anything else. 

“Please what?” There was savage delight in Claquesous’s voice.

“ _ More _ !”

Claquesous’s movement was an attack. He brought his mouth to Montparnasse’s, seizing it in a sharp kiss. Montparnasse could feel the warmth of his own blood, could taste the bite of iron. On Claquesous’s lips, it was delicious. Claquesous pulled back hard, and then dove for the throat again, and again, biting with a terrifying force, over and over. Between Montparnasse’s legs, a matching fury worked, bringing the tidal wave of sensation over his head again quickly, and still it did not end.

Montparnasse cried out into the night; Claquesous didn’t bother to silence him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all Freckle's fault tbh bc she made me write an essay on the science of vampire sex sooo.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for blood, blood-drinking, mildly suggestive content, (mostly) non-sexual choking, mention of surgical scars, and dehumanization of a sort?

Blood was soaking into the mattress underneath him, but Montparnasse couldn’t bring himself to deal with it yet. Electricity still ran through his veins, the impossibility of the situation still not hitting him despite the waves of pleasure still pulsing from his neck. The venom had left him feeling dazed, perfectly calm and comfortable in a loose fog, like the best fucking high he had ever experienced. 

Claquesous was still stretched out next to him, a hint of sly satisfaction playing off of him as he watched Montparnasse. He had wiped most of the blood from his chin, licking it off his fingers in a way that made Montparnasse shudder. Faintly Montparnasse felt like he should feel exposed, naked save the sheet around his hips, while Claquesous was still fully dressed. But the embarrassed burn never surfaced, and the heat staying beneath his skin as his heart beat tendrils of raw energy. 

“This is the second set of sheets you’ve ruined,” Montparnasse muttered, his mouth feeling too soft. 

Claquesous raised an eyebrow. “It’s your blood that ruined them, technically,” he said lazily. “You’re the one with the beating heart.”

That made it through the fog in Montparnasse’s head, and he looked over sharply. “Your heart doesn’t beat?” he said, his still-present fear tinged with raw curiosity.

In response, Claquesous plucked one of Montparnasse’s hands and dropped it on his chest. Montparnasse stiffened, and then spread his fingers over the spot on Claquesous’s rib cage and waited. Nothing stirred. The stillness was unnerving. Montparnasse pulled his hand back.

“Christ,” he breathed, and then looked up at Claquesous’s face again. “Oh shit. Does that, like, hurt you? Saying...that? Religious things?”

Claquesous smiled. His fangs were gone, replaced by regular, human-looking canines. “No. That’s all myth, based on the assumption that vampires are a creation of the devil, or the product of some demonic curse.”

“Oh. What- how are you actually- ?” Montparnasse waved a hand, uncertain how the words would feel on his tongue. 

“Probably a genetic mutation, or so I’ve heard,” Claquesous said loftily. “There aren’t many vampire geneticists to confirm, though.” 

Montparnasse considered it a moment, a hundred more questions spiraling in his head.

“Nothing holy hurts me anymore than it does you,” Claquesous continued. “Relics, temples, crosses, holy water - those are things that have descended from a time when people had more faith and less intelligence. It never did anybody any good, of course, but it’s always easier to feed on prey that thinks itself defended against you.” 

Another spike of what would have been panic or terror rolls mutley through Montparnasse, attempting to claw out of the haze of venom. 

“Are any of the stories real?” Montparnasse asked. 

“Trying to learn how to kill me?” 

“You just gave me the best orgasms of my life. I’m not quite ready to try and murder you yet. For purely selfish reasons. I’m just...curious. ”

“Sharing weaknesses with a human is probably considered dangerous.” Claquesous grinned. “But I’ve always enjoyed living dangerously. Or maybe you’re just too pretty not to indulge.”

Despite himself, Montparnasse felt a ripple of proud vanity.

“I could always make you beg for it,” Claquesous said. 

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I suppose it’s only fair, considering I know all about your weaknesses.” He reached out, dragging a finger down Montparnasse’s neck, making Montparnasse shiver, the smallest hint of a whine escaping his lips. 

“A sensitivity to sunlight is true, depending on the stories you know,” Claquesous began, slowly drawing a line of goosebumps across Montparnasse’s throat. “We don’t burst into flames, but we can burn and blister, and so we tend to reside in the comforts of the night. Our senses are heightened, our abilities magnified. I can hear your the rush of new blood in your veins. Smell your humanity.” Claquesous’s finger continued to trace its way over Montparnasse’s body, the ridges of his collarbone, the half-moon scars beneath his nipples. “We heal quickly. As far as I know, we can live forever. I have yet to meet a vampire who has died of old age.” Claquesous spoke casually, verging on amused as he watched Montparnasse’s reactions. “A stake through my heart would be a bit of an annoyance - painful, maybe, but likely not fatal. The organ is dead, and so would you be before you had the chance to discover a more effective method. We feed on humans primarily, on animals or each other when we must. When I drink from a human, I am full for a week. Animal and vampire blood has less nutrients.” The finger ran over Montparnasse’s stomach, making him flinch, the muscles clenching. “Some vampires keep pets. Pretend it’s a mutually beneficial relationship. Keep a human happy and high, and slow down their aging a little to maintain their food source. I prefer to go out hunting. Find someone full of vitality to pull into a shadow, then make them forget the encounter. Never the same person twice. That I came back for you a second night in a row - I seem to have developed a taste for you.” 

The finger turned to a claw, grabbing Montparnasse roughly by a hip bone. The other hand whipped up to suppress Montparnasse’s startled cry. “Why is that?” Claquesous said, the intensity set into his grin nearly turning it to a snarl. “What is so special about you that I felt like I would starve if I did not find you again?” His hand pressed harder on Montparnasse’s windpipe. “I have lived over two hundred years. I have tasted the blood of thousands. Why yours?” 

Claquesous’s smile had slid entirely into a grimace, and his teeth had grown again into points. Montparnasse was seeing spots.

“I could drain you of every drop of blood in your body and never feel satisfied. Have you poisoned me, then? Is your blood so toxic that you and I will die from it?”

Claquesous’s eyes were blown wide, and Montparnasse caught the edge of subtle redness colouring the dark irises. Montparnasse reached for Claquesous’s hand, trying to push it away from his throat. It was like trying to move a tonne of concrete, but Claquesous released him anyway, replacing the bruising fingers with his mouth again. Montparnasse didn’t have the air to cry out when the fangs pressed into him again, and he desperately tried to suck in a breath as Claquesous relieved him of more blood. 

It was all Montparnasse could feel. His own pounding heartbeat betrayed his body, serving up his life force to Claquesous on a porcelain platter. He felt his slowly-clearing head fall back into a haze. It felt so  _ good _ . What did he need a single drop of his blood for if he could trade it all for the ecstatic venom sending every one of his nerves dancing? His limbs felt slow and heavy. The spots in his vision had become fireworks, exploding in dazzling displays, even behind his eyelids as he fought to keep them open. The pressure on his neck was electrifying. He felt like sobbing. He felt like laughing until he broke apart. 

With a final swipe of his tongue, Claquesous drew back. Montparnasse reached for him, clumsily. 

“More!” he moaned, trying to catch hold of anything he could pull on. 

“No.” Claquesous was off the bed impossibly quickly. He stood, staring down at the venom-drunk Montparnasse with a mixture of want and distaste on his face. Blood stained the corners of his mouth. “I’ve had too much,” he said, strained. “I could kill you.”

“Don’t care,” mumbled Montparnasse, still reaching out blindly. 

“You will when this high wears off,” said Claquesous, darkly. He looked down, and then started to pull on his discarded shoes.

“Don’t go!” Montparnasse tried to raise his voice, but the words came out slurred and muted. “More, please! Please - keep me.”

Claquesous froze. 

“Keep me,” Montparnasses moaned again, grabbing at the sudden tension. “Drink me, fuck me, just - keep me.” He had lost his ability to lift his arms any further, leaving him sprawled on the bed as he begged after Claquesous.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Claquesous hissed, and the tone alone was enough to make Montparnasse tremble. 

“Please-” he managed. But Claquesous vanished through the bedroom doorway before Montparnasse could add more to the plea. He was shaking, and he could feel a wet heat on his face, though if it was blood or tears, he couldn’t say. 

He couldn’t say either when he finally fell asleep, wrapped in a coating of fear, false bliss, and blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExsNJu0TIAY


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood, hard drugs/drug use/drug dealing/talk of addiction.

It was well past noon by the time Montparnasse dragged his eyes open. He was soaked in sweat, and his head pounded. Sluggishly, he kicked off the sheet tangled around his legs. He felt weak and slow as he tried to move, shuddering at the feeling of his skin brushing against dried blood. His mouth tasted disgusting, coppery and stale, and it seemed as though his senses were magnifying his discomfort. 

Even remembered as though through a cloud of smoke, the events of the night before were still firmly planted in his head, and he was mildly surprised that he had enough blood left in his body for it to sear his face in embarrassment. Claquesous had drawn something out of him he hadn’t meant to release. His own pleas rang in his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, as though he could keep out the shame. 

_ Keep me.  _

He hated way he had sounded. He hated the image of himself begging, naked and vulnerable and intoxicated, to a creature who saw him as nothing more than a meal. The look of strange incomprehension, the sharpness of the denial. The sharpness of the teeth.

He shivered despite himself. The thought of Claquesous feeding was still tied to his body’s reaction, erotic fascination and echoes of pleasure still riddled him with tiny electric shocks. 

More troubling was the desire that had not yet abated. Even in the hash daylight, covered in his own blood, feeling horribly hungover, something in Montparnasse’s physiology taunted him. He wanted more. It was undeniable, burning its way through his nervous system like a drug. 

Shit. 

Montparnasse pushed himself off the bed, broken, groggy body be damned, and dove for his discarded pants. He tossed them aside once he found his phone in the pocket, ignoring the way his eyes strained against the too-bright screen. The numbers of four different clients glared back at him, demanding to know where he was, or what he had, or when he was planning on answering his phone. His body felt like it was made of stone, exhaustion still clawing at the edges of his vision. He looked between his phone and the bed, at the awful messes there. He would deal with them both later. He headed to the shower. 

Once the water had turned from pink to clear again and Montparnasse felt somewhat like a person again, he shut off the shower, dried himself, and went back to his room, feeling at least a little less dread. He dressed quickly and stripped the bed, trying not to look too long at the ruined sheets as he stuffed them into a garbage bag. The mattress was stained a dark red-brown, and Montparnasse made an annoyed note to himself to get some kind of stain remover when he was out. 

Finally, he went to his closet and pulled out the safe he kept there, hidden behind a curtain of black clothing. Inside was his survival. The brick was about half gone, some of it already distributed into tiny plastic bags stacked neatly against the side of the safe. He carefully picked up a few, slipping them into pockets sewn into the lining of his jacket. He paused, though, as he went to shut the door, and stared at the tightly wrapped cocaine. He didn’t feel the itch for it, not really. Acquiring it was the stupidest thing he had ever done, and the luckiest he had ever gotten, and he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t waste that luck chasing his own high. And for over a year, he had honoured that - until he he found the effects of a vampire bite wearing off, leaving him aching for something to fuck with his senses, at least for a little while. He took out one more baggie, removed a tiny pinch of powder, and rubbed it into his gums. He then unceremoniously tossed the baggie back into the safe, and shut it hard, shoving it back into the closet. 

He made his deliveries quickly, his energy artificially heightened along with his senses. He found himself repeatedly touching his neck, running his fingers over the skin lightly, trying to elicit any sort of reaction from the venom that could have been hiding under the surface. Despite the repeated bites Claquesous had given him, Montparnasse’s neck was free of marks. No puncture wounds gave any indication of what had happened to him, and when he thought too hard about it, paranoia began to claw at him, wondering too loud if he had dreamed the whole thing. 

When he finally pocketed the cash from his last client, Montparnasse pulled out his phone to check that he hadn’t missed anything - and stopped. There, listed among his contacts, was Claquesous’s name. He stared at it, confused. He had no memory of even asking for Claquesous’s number, let alone adding it to his phone. But Claquesous had taken a chunk of his memory at least once. Maybe…

Montparnasse’s heart was pounding, amplified by the drugs. He was chilled  by the image of Claquesous skulking around his apartment, destroying any memory Montparnasse might have had of it. Being out in the open was suddenly impossible to stand, and Montparnasse put his head down, walking quickly towards home. 

When he got inside, he locked the door, bolted it, and looked out the peephole, as though he feared a monster stood on the other side. He saw nothing, but still went to circle the apartment, making sure windows were locked and curtains closed before he finally sat down in the living room, his phone held in trembling hands. A jolt of energy sent the text before he had a chance to second-guess himself.

 

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Why do I have your number? _

 

He watched the screen, waiting.

 

It was the tail end of dusk when Claquesous responded. The television buzzed on low volume, casting the only light in the room. Montparnasse was half-dozing, his body exhausted from the rollercoaster of highs over the past two days.

 

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ you asked for it - the first night  _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ I don’t remember.  _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ you wouldn’t  _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ You wanted a snack on speed dial? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i don’t keep track of snacks _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ So why give it to me then? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ unknown _

 

Montparnasse scoffed at the answer. It was purposefully, infuriatingly vague. He dropped his phone onto the couch, scowling, but continued to stare at it. Eventually, it lit up again.

 

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ the venom should be gone by now _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Yeah I’m great and not at all fucked up, thanks for asking. Had they not invented manners 100 years ago? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ 220 _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ ??? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i was born 220 years ago  _

 

_ Christ _ , thought Montparnasse.

 

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Tell me about it.  _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ what do you want to know _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Everything. I let you vampire-fuck me. I think I deserve at least some basic information here.  _

 

He waited for a reaction, for Claquesous to cite the shuddered begging that marked Montparnasse as far from passive. Claquesous didn’t take the bait. 

 

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ what do you know about the edo period of japan _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Not a damn thing. _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ you have heard of samurai  _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ No shit. You were a samurai?? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ no. i was the son of a merchant at the very bottom of society’s hierarchy. i was trained by a  _ _ rōnin - a masterless  _ _ samurai. he turned me in 1827. _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Holy shit _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i killed him just as he killed his master. he said my blood sang to him - i did not understand until yours sang to me _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ I’m not sure if I should find that sexy or terrifying.  _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ You really killed the guy who turned you?  _ _  
_ **_Claquesous:_ ** _ yes  _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Why? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i had no desire to spend my eternity as a tool to someone else. i became a transient. I saw many places and i saw them pass through one hand of power to the next. i learned. i stayed hidden and i survived _

 

Montparnasse felt breathless, trying to imagine watching humanity from the shadows. It was an almost intoxicating thought. 

 

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ If you were to turn me would I have to kill you? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ no. i would not turn you _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ What if I wanted you to? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ no _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Why not?  _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i had few choices - you have many _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Bullshit. You don’t know a thing about me.  _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i know you are young and would be unprepared for such a life _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ So why bother with me at all? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ weakness _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ In who??  _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ both of us. i admit a weakness for the taste of you. you are weak simply because you are human _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Thanks that’s not giving me whiplash at all. _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Just. I still want more. _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Come drink again. _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Claquesous? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ no _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Why?? Why bother talking to me at all if you don’t want to turn me and you don’t want my blood? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ i crave your blood. taking it would ruin us both in addiction  _

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ What now, then? _

**_Claquesous:_ ** _ unknown _

 

Montparnasse stared at the screen, teeth gritted in a frustrated pain. Addiction had already ruined him. As the cocaine high had gone, the creeping pulse of the desire to once again have Claquesous’s teeth at his throat had returned. His body felt charged with electricity, and he stood up, moving restlessly through the apartment. He wanted to scream, as though he could expel the nervous energy vocally. He cursed Claquesous with every angry step he took, until his phone buzzed again.

  
**_Claquesous:_ ** _ 14 rue jules david sunday midnight  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Azura for making me consider Montparnasse wearing booty shorts with "Snack" across the ass.
> 
> @ me in comments or at feyland.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood and blood drinking, including forearm wounds

 

Montparnasse did not belong in the suburbs. He had felt his nose automatically wrinkle when he had looked up the address Claquesous had sent him, questioning his attraction to a person who would willingly spend any amount of time in a neighbourhood called Les Lilas. 

The short walk from the metro station through the quiet streets had done nothing to dissuade Montparnasse’s prejudice. The buildings were tired, the streets just as narrow and dirty as in the city centre, but missing any of the interesting shops or restaurants or interesting people that made Paris livable. A few minutes after midnight and already almost every window was dark, wrapping sleeping residents in a blanket of tedious routine. 

14 rue Jules David was just as dark and still, even the whitewashed walls looking dull and grey in the poorly lit street. Montparnasse paused a long moment outside of it. He had held down his nerves by focusing on his derision for his surroundings, but they bubbled up unrestrained as he stared at the house. He didn’t have any idea of what was in store for him and the uncertainty weighed on him. The shuttered windows of the house seemed to watch his hesitation with amusement. 

He knocked. 

The following silence was broken by the wild pounding of his heart. He heard no movement on the other side of the door, and he jumped when the door was swung open without warning. Part of him had concocted an image of Claquesous looking different while in the comfort of his own home (if the boring suburban house was indeed his home). A mashup of waistcoats and cravats and silks. Maybe a large, ornate goblet of blood. 

Claquesous was as simply dressed as ever, black shirt, black jeans, black hair, black eyes. He said nothing but stepped a little to the side to allow Montparnasse across the threshold. Montparnasse wondered mildly if he would make it out alive, but stepped through the doorway nonetheless. 

Claquesous shut the door and flicked on the light. Montparnasse blinked, taking in the neat, modern interior. The entryway fed directly into a long hallway, minimally adorned with a long black rug that ran along the dark wood floor. A few doorways led off into darkness, but the narrow archway at the very end of the hall was illuminated from within, muted voiced spilling out with the soft lamplight. 

“Come,” Claquesous said simply when Montparnasse looked to him at the sound, and began to walk. 

Uncertain of what else to do, Montparnasse followed. Even muffled by the rug, the old floorboards creaked under his feet. Claquesous, significantly taller, made no noise at all. Claquesous stopped in the doorway, gesturing for Montparnasse to be the first to step into the living room. It was warmly lit and comfortable-looking, with antique couches and chairs enough to provide for several more people beyond the four already seated. 

Conversation ended as every eye in the room found Montparnasse - he could even feel Claquesous’s gaze on the back of his neck. Desperate to keep the any trace of apprehension off his face despite the thumping in his chest, Montparnasse looked cooly back at each of them. 

To his immediate left, a man who appeared to be in his mid-30s reclined on a chaise, looking significantly more like the imagined vampire aesthetic than Claquesous. The man’s clothes seemed new, but the patterns and textures spoke of fashions past. His brown hair curled softly around his ears, and his wide mouth was prominent as he grinned up at Montparnasse. 

The nearest armchair seemed too small for the person it held. Even sitting, he was nearly Montparnasse’s height. Everything about him was broad - his chest, his arms, his large dark eyes that stared back at Montparnasse with an unreadable calm. His clothing was simple and contemporary, his densely curled black hair cut short, and he looked no older than Montparnasse himself. When their eyes met, Montparnasse was the first to look away. 

Taking up most of the adjacent couch was what appeared to be a sullen teenager, their arms crossed, barely bothering to give Montparnasse a once-over before turning their attention back towards the ceiling. Montparnasse, though, couldn’t help but stare at the pink hair, the awful, gaudy print of their t-shirt, and the dirty high tops propped up on the arm of the couch.

A woman made up the quartet of strange people. Seated in an armchair directly across from where Montparnasse stood, she was perhaps the least visibly dramatic. Her light brown skin and dark hair blended seamlessly with the dark furniture, her clothes coloured in similar earthy tones. Montparnasse kept his eyes low, purposefully avoiding her gaze. Something about her unnerved him, and he let himself look back at Claquesous, as though the familiarity would allow for the ice in the back of his neck thaw just a little. 

“You wanted more,” Claquesous said, watching Montparnasse’s face with an eerie calm. “This is to show you what you are really asking for.” He gestured to the room. “This is Babet, Gueulemer, Fauntleroy, and Mardisoir, some of my closest companions. I’ve been eager to share such a treat with them.”

“Pretty,” noted the man to Montparnasse’s left, who Claquesous had identified as Babet. “I suppose if you’re going to keep a pet, he may as well be a pretty one.”

“He’s not a pet,” Claquesous said. “He’s an experiment. Though he is as nice to look at as he is to taste.”

Fear and fascination assaulted Montparnasse. He had willingly walked into a den of monsters, and while a voice inside of him begged him to run, the allure of surrendering himself completely was overwhelmingly intoxicating. The memory of Claquesous’s venom pulsing through him, erasing every sensation but straight adrenaline and pleasure. For nearly a week, he had tried to move past the cravings that yearned for another night with Claquesous. He might have been able to eventually get over the want. But dangled in front of him, he did not want to turn his back on the greatest feeling he had ever experienced. He was starved for it. 

“Please,” he managed to rasp, his heart in his throat.

“Good,” Claquesous said, low. He placed a hand on the small of Montparnasse’s back, and lightly directed his movements as he spoke. “Who gets the first bite, then? Respect for our elders?” He turned Montparnasse towards the woman - Mardisoir - who gave no acknowledgement at all, which seemed to prompt Claquesous to turn Montparnasse towards Babet. “Or the greediest?” 

Babet’s grin never waivered as he sat up straighter. There was a scoff.

“If you give him to Babet first, there won’t be anything left for the rest of us,” said the teenager from the couch. They had shifted, moving their feet onto the floor, as they watched Montparnasse with the same bored look. 

“ _ Come here _ ,” they said. 

Montparnasse moved, pulling away from Claquesous’s hand without a second thought. His vision had tunneled, a laser focus drawn to the sullen mess of neon. The desire to cross the room was stronger than any temptation he’d ever experienced, and the strong arm that caught him around the shoulders was a hateful one. He struggled against it as Claquesous spoke.

“None of that tonight, Fauntleroy,” he all but purred, amusement playing at the words. “No need to charm an already willing guest. And I do want him to be able to remember as much of tonight as he can.”

The draw to Fauntleroy dropped, and Montparnasse nearly staggered, snapping back against Claquesous’s chest with all the force he had been using to move forward. Claquesous released him, and watched as Montparnasse caught his breath. He could feel himself blushing hard, knowing it was only helping draw the attention of the vampires who watched him intently. 

He took a breath, and closed the distance between him and Fauntleroy. The young-looking vampire’s expression was still one of careless boredom, but Montparnasse caught the gleam of something like interest behind their pale eyes. Montparnasse could feel the hair raise on his arms. His breath was coming out short and shallow, and he gritted his teeth to try and calm himself.

Fauntleroy noticed, it seemed, because they suddenly grinned, their fangs exposed. They gestured for Montparnasse to sit beside them, and he could feel every nerve in his body react as he complied. 

Fauntleroy struck like a cobra, their movement inhumanly fast, the force rocking Montparnasse back in his seat, the fangs still firmly planted in his neck. If there was any pain, it was hidden beneath the heat of the bite, which grew like a wildfire through Montparnasse’s body. He had his eyes clenched shut, trying to breathe through his nose, fearing that even a breath of air would take away from the growing pleasure pulsing from the wound. Though their bite was vicious, Fauntleroy’s tongue worked lazily, sucking at the puncture wounds without hurry. When they pulled back, their lips were red, and blood speckled the corners of their mouth. 

Montparnasse was so focused on it, wanting the mouth back, that he neglected to see the large man - Gueulemer - approaching until he sat himself on Montparnasse’s other side, not bothering with a single word before his teeth found Montparnasse’s throat. Gueulemer drank steadily, no teasing tongue or prolonged touch. Instead, Montparnasse felt only an intoxicating warmth filling him. 

A new set of frangs pierced his neck as Babet took Fauntleroy’s place. Montparnasse couldn’t contain it anymore - a long breathy sigh spilled out of his lips as the two vampires worked at his neck. He felt dizzy and weak, yet delighted. Every part of him hummed, thick with venom and drunk on bliss. A hundred thousand tiny bolts of lightning struck along his skin, leaving raised bumps that made him shudder. 

Eventually, the pressure on his neck eased, though the euphoria being pumped through his veins in place of blood remained. Blearily, Montparnasse opened his eyes, trying to keep the room from spinning. Babet and Gueulemer were gone, and Mardisoir stood in front of him, inspecting him with fathomless eyes. She took one of his arms in hers as she sat, and raised the wrist to her lips. Even in his drugged fog, Montparnasse couldn’t help but stare at her as she pierced the skin, sucking at the flow of blood that immediately surfaced. Montparnasse could barely feel it - his body was so light. But the tremor that started in his arm and exploded outwards was nothing short of orgasmic, even more so when it didn’t subside even when Mardisoir released him. Overstimulated, Montparnasse felt himself slipping forward, towards the woman with the ancient eyes. 

It was Claquesous who again caught him, dragging him back up onto the couch forcing his attention away from Mardisoir as she licked her lips, and stood again. Claquesous’s hand was firmly planted against Montparnasse’s chest, and Montparnasse wildly hoped the weakening flutter of his heart was enough for Claquesous to feel. Montparnasse’s body felt detached, his limbs as useless as a ragdoll’s. He let Claquesous fold him against his chest, though how he could have objected, Montparnasse didn’t know. When Claquesous’s fangs finally sank into the tender skin, Montparnasse let out a long whine that twisted into a moan as Claquesous bagan to suck. Something like a laugh sounded somewhere in the background. Bells too, maybe. His body shook, trembled, fell apart under Claquesous’s touch. 

When the darkness finally came for him, it was tinged in red.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I have uuuuuh a lot of notes on PM backgrounds that are not all gonna make it into the fic so hmu for fun facts like 'Fauntleroy had frosted tips when they were turned' and 'Babet used to have pissing contests with Louis XIV in the Hall of Mirrors'


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW - emetophobia, blood

Waves of nausea breached Montparnasse’s unconscious. His eyelids felt so heavy, and the thought of the effort it would take to open them was enough to make the blackness in his head spin. He could feel, vaguely, that he was lying down, his skin clammy, his muscles aching. A swell rose up in his stomach, and he somehow found the energy to roll onto his side as he gagged and wretched, though nothing came out. His mouth was bone dry and the exhaustion holding him hostage was overpowering, and as the nausea quelled, he slipped back under.

He jolted, later, when something cold clicked against his teeth. Instinctually, he snapped his lips closed, realizing the thing was an ice chip when it fell onto his bare torso, making him flinch. He blinked wildly in the dark, confusion pounding into his skull along with an oncoming headache. A black silhouette stood over him, and Montparnasse lashed out, ignoring the weakness in his arms, ready to fight the shadow.

A hand caught his arm firmly, holding it in a steel grip, and the figure leaned down. Montparnasse’s heart jumped to his throat, a mixture of relief and fear warring over him as he recognized Claquesous. 

“ _ Relax _ .”

The fight went out of him like a snuffed flame. He still felt sick and cold but the immediate terror was gone, replaced with a thick layer of sticky trust that cocooned his mind. He let his jaw fall open, accepting the ice Claquesous was attempting to feed him. It helped, soothing the dryness in his mouth and throat, and he sucked greedily on the pieces. Too soon, Claquesous placed the cup of ice chips onto the table beside the bed, and left the room without a word. As he did, the fuzzy calm that had engulfed Montparnasse dissipated, and a pounding returned to his chest as he blinked away the trick Claquesous had played on his mind. 

With shaking hands, he reached for the cup, using far more effort than he should have, and brought the edge to his lips, sending a shower of ice down into his mouth. The cold hit the roof of it, sending a jolt through his nerves. The sharp pain shocked his brain, and it took everything he had not to drop the cup as he set it back on the table and grabbed his head with his hands. Groaning, he sunk back into the pillows, his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the ache to pass.

The third time he woke, Montparnasse’s head was clearer. He hadn’t remembered falling back asleep, but his mouth was dry again, though the pounding in his head had calmed to a dull pulse. The room was still dark, and he pushed himself to his feet, cautiously feeling around for a light. His fingers ran across a switch, and the room illuminated, far too bright for Montparnasse’s sleep-weakened eyes. He blinked hard against the spots in his vision, and looked around.

The small room was plain, holding only a single bed and a side table. He was half-dressed, with his own shirt nowhere to be seen, but another simple black pullover sat folded on the side table. Memories of the night before swam in his head as he tried to understand the meaning - he could remember the hot, sticky feeling of his own blood trickling down his chest. Looking down, he could see no trace of blood on his body, though he had to assume his shirt had been ruined.  He pulled on the new one on quickly, feeling exposed despite the privacy. He prodded gently at his neck, waiting for the pain to flare up, or at the very least, tenderness, but it felt normal, the skin unbroken and unbruised. 

He was careful, still, when he finally opened the bedroom door, trying to move as silently as possible. He found himself in the same long hallway he had stepped into the night before. Part of him was pushing him hard to the right, towards the front door and somewhere safer than a den full of monsters. 

He turned left.

The living room was unchanged from the evening before, save for the inhabitants. Only Claquesous sat there in an antique armchair, a book in hand. 

“Good evening,” he murmured without looking up from it as Montparnasse let his shadow pass the threshold. 

“Evening?” Montparnasse said, his voice coming out raspy and weak. 

“Mm. You have missed a day, I’m afraid. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were going to wake at all. My friends took an great liking to you.”

Montparnasse shivered, the sensation memory of being overwhelmed and devoured by so many vampires-

“Well I did,” he said, attempting at bravado. “So what now?”

Claquesous finally looked up from his book, his face unreadably calm. “You haven’t tried to run yet. I was certain you would.”

Montparnasse shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“You survived an encounter with five vampires. That was unexpected.”

“You were trying to kill me?” Montparnasse asked, suspicious. He knew Claquesous could likely snap his neck - any of the creatures who had drank from him probably could. If they had wanted him dead, he would be dead.

“Not actively. It was a possibility, though. They took more blood from you than instructed.”

“ _ Instructed _ ?”

“Yes. I set out a limit. Terribly rude, really, to eat more than your fill at a dinner party.”

“So what,” said Montparnasse, a haughtiness stirring, “you just wanted them to drink me  _ mostly  _ to death?”

“Yes.”

“ _ Why _ ?” Montparnasse exploded, his head feeling too light to keep down the weighty admission. 

“I had hoped it would be what would finally frighten you away.” 

There was a long pause; Montparnasse said nothing, though his heart beat like a gong in his chest, certainly audible to the vampire still sitting passive and expressionless before him.

“It was a test on my own weaknesses,” Claquesous continued. “I am a not often denied the things I want. I feared whatever strange draw you had on me. And I am a creature of invitation - I find it difficult to turn one down. You plied me with many. So I chose instead to cultivate your weaknesses. Your humanity. Your instincts and your fears. Brush with death, and creatures worse than death, and perhaps I would not need to deprive myself - you would do it for me. It seems misevaluated.” 

Perhaps it was what was left of the giddy feeling brought on by the venom, or perhaps he was still too dizzy from blood loss, but Montparnasse broke then, barking out a laugh that hurt his chest and sounded too loud in his own ears. The ridiculousness of the entire situation was too absurd to take seriously, even staring down a centuries-old predator. He moved to drape himself over the chaise, reclining as casually as he could manage. 

“So you got your squad together, told them to  _ eat me _ but only enough to scare me away...because you were just too  _ horny  _ for my blood-” He laughed again. “And it  _ didn’t even work _ .”

“So it would seem,” said Claquesous mildly. “I suppose this is something of an impasse. I am curious how it will be resolved.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was meant to be. You are quite a fine mix of bravery and stupidity, but perhaps I’ll manage to frighten you yet.”

Montparnasse scoffed. “What are my other options?”

Claquesous regarded him from hooded eyes, his face still as blank as a mask. “If you will not run from me, it will be far easier to kill you.” He opened his mouth slowly, revealing the glint of sharp teeth. 

Montparnasse fought back the instinctual shiver and forced himself to breath normally. “But you don’t want to,” he said. 

“No. It would be quite a waste. I have lived centuries and never have I been so drawn to a human’s blood.”

“So we make a deal.” 

Claquesous raised an eyebrow.

“Look,” continued Montparnasse, sitting up a little. “This is a mutually beneficial relationship. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t into the sex, so that’s on the table for me, but I’m just happy to trade my blood for a bit of a high. You could eat whenever you want, without having to go out seducing your food over and over again. And even if you’re not interested, I could always go find someone else to fuck me once you’ve juiced me up.”

“Persuasive. You’re quite the salesman.”

“I am literally a drug dealer. This is a drug deal. Just a weird one.” 

“I see.” Claquesous leaned forward. “I have heard from some who have kept pets that it is important to build up a sort of stamina. A little every day, until both parties are always satiated. So that a drink would never go too far.”

“I like it when things go too far,” Montparnasse said, his voice twisting into something vaguely sultry as his confidence grew. Vampire or not, Claquesous had a glint in his eye that was all too familiar. Montparnasse knew what desire looked like on someone’s face.  

Claquesous met his eye. “Oh? And how do you feel today?” he asked, and Montparnasse felt something pull at his gut, and he blanched as he felt his stomach roll. Dizziness and panic surged through Montparnasse like a tidal wave, crashing against his skull, his ribs, his pelvis. Had he not already been sitting, he would have fallen to his knees - the strength of the surge was a promise as it crashed over him. It only lasted a second or two, though, until Claquesous released him, leaving him panting and shaken. 

“A resistance,” Claquesous continued calmly, “for the sake of sustainability. The venom has properties to keep you from aging as quickly as you would otherwise. It it make you a little stronger. A little faster. A little more sensitive to the sun.”

“I prefer the night anyway,” Montparnasse said, still chasing his breath even as he failed to hold back the entirety of him smile that was budding from the seed of possibility planted in his chest. 

“Let me be transparent, Montparnasse,” Claquesous said, and Montparnasse felt a spike of electricity at the sound of his name. “I will not turn you. My sire sought to create an army in his image. I will not do the same. Eternal life is not a gift - it is foolish, youthful fantasy.” 

Montparnasse opened his mouth, then closed it, swallowed, and tried again. “Your friends seem happy enough.” 

“My friends bear far more scars than they would ever show you,” replied Claquesous, his voice taking on a tinge of ice. “It would terrify you to hear of their lives and their deaths.”

“Tell me then.” Montparnasse let the words fall from his lips like lead. A growing anger burned in his stomach as Claquesous spoke to him like a child, naive and fragile. Maybe he had once been that child, but it wasn’t that child who glared at Claquesous from across the living room. “Terrify me. Prove to me that I don’t want this.”

Claquesous said nothing. He simply stared at Montparnasse, unreadable as ever. Without warning, he rose, and strode from the room. Montparnasse watched, confused, and was trying to determine whether he should follow when Claquesous soundlessly reappeared with a plate. He handed it to Montparnasse, along with the chocolate-drizzled pastry it held. 

“Eat,” he said as he returned to his chair. “The sugar will help.” 

He fell silent again, watching. Slowly, Montparnasse raised the pastry to his mouth. Only then did Claquesous begin to speak. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it chocolatine or pain au chocolat - sound off. 
> 
> Look. I got carried away with PM backstories and now I have to share them or I'll explode. I didn't mean for this to happen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy ok - Tw for murder, slavery, heavily implied child sex work/sexual assault, child abuse, executions, violence, drug use, large bodies of water, blood

“Many vampires are transient, or at least partially so. It is far easier to hide one’s lack of aging that way, and any quirks picked up from centuries past tend to be attributed to foreign mannerisms. I have lived in Paris nearly fifty years now, the longest I have ever stayed in one place. That is laughable, though, compared to Babet. 

Babet is French - he was born in France, he has lived both of his lives in France, and should he ever die, it will be in France. He was alive in a time when France was the centre of the universe, all orbiting around a single star, with whom Babet was quite close. His father was a prominent figure in the court of Louis XIV; Babet was born in 1646, the year four-year-old Louis took the throne, and grew up as one of the Sun King’s favourite playthings. Babet takes great pride in this, even still. Should you spend any more time with him, I am certain you will be subjected to some manner of unfortunate tale - I have heard far too many stories of the king holding court while receiving enemas. 

Babet was thirty-six when he was turned, wealthy, vain, and cruel. He had two sons by his long-suffering wife, whom I have never heard him call by name, but kept his family away from the thrills of his court life. He had few responsibilities, but many opinions, and he vexed the wrong person, it seems. The king had many mistresses, both officially and unofficially. There was a young woman by the name of Isabelle de Ludres, a creature with aspirations above her station. Babet was not fond of her, and he encouraged the king to keep her without title or official position. He found her in his chambers soon after, begging him to help her win back Louis’s favour. She offered him everything she had. He was a fool, drunk on the power over the woman he believed weak, and that is how he found himself in bed with her as she nearly drained him of his blood in revenge, before forcing her own into his mouth so that he could live with the betrayal forever. 

He was forced into hiding, faking his own death, left to fend for himself in ways he had never had to before. His life of luxury was decimated in a few whispered words. He spent a century watching his country and his lineage fall into ruin, until the last of his descendants met with the guillotine as France was engulfed in flame. 

Perhaps he would have never emerged from his depression had he not stumbled across another vampire in the early 1800s. Gueulemer was so young, barely more than a fledgeling, and a stranger in a strange land. Somehow, I suppose Babet managed to muster up enough charm to coax out the story. I believe the meeting likely saved them both - it gave Babet a sense of purpose to try and help the boy, and Gueulemer a chance to understand what he was and who he could be. 

Gueulemer had always been a tool, never before in control of his own fate. He was born into slavery in Haiti, then called Saint-Domingue under French rule in 1772. He does not speak much of his first life, and has said he remembers little of his family. He does not forget, though, the face of his master. I know it haunts him. From the time Gueulemer was a boy, he was carefully groomed, personally attending to his master, treated as something between a favoured hunting dog and a lab rat. He was nineteen when he discovered the truth of his role, as well as the cause of his master’s oddities. He revealed his vampiric nature, turning Gueulemer, then at the height of his youthful prime, in order to create a superior kind of slave, carefully trained to obey for an eternity. 

He should have been more careful with his timing, perhaps. Disquiet had been brewing across the island, and the vibrations had found their way to Gueulemer too. On the August night in 1791 when a tropical storm hit like a brutal omen, thousands of slaves rose up against their masters, dragging them out of their beds until the streets of Saint-Domingue ran with French blood. Gueulemer has said little of the events of that night as he recalls them, but his master and sire did not live to see another daybreak, nor did much of his household. 

It was easy in those days for Gueulemer to feed, joining with a group of guerrilla fighters who turned a blind eye on their companion in order to keep focus on the true monster in their midst. Gueulemer was fierce and dedicated - he would not hide from the sun even as it scorched and scarred him. He played the part of a good and loyal soldier until 1804 when the last of the French troops were forced from the island, and his brothers in arms leveled their fear against him. Even as the Haitians celebrated their freedom and their victory, Gueulemer found no peace in a society for whom he had lain down his life who now looked at him with terror and revulsion. He chose to leave, still drenched in years of bloodshed and a lifetime of anger, to take up his own reign of terror he perceived as guilty. He swam to France.”

 

“He  _ swam  _ to France?” Montparnasse cut in, staring at Claquesous with wide eyes. “From  _ Haiti _ ?”

Claquesous met his eye, unblinking. “Yes. He had no need to breathe. We are able to go weeks without sleep if need be. The worst of his fury, though was lost somewhere in the Atlantic. He emerged on European shores alive, though starving and exhausted from both the journey and the lifetime of fear and terror.”

Montparnasse let out a low whistle. He had about a thousand questions, most of which he assumed Claquesous would not answer. And so for once he held his tongue, and waited for Claquesous to continue. 

 

“Something of an odd couple, Gueulemer and Babet, but nevertheless a fortuitous encounter. I suspect there were some tumultuous years as they navigated knowing another vampire besides their sires. Lucky, then, when they met Mardisoir. She had centuries of experience on them, and a strong bond with her sire in a way that could prove not all origins had to be painted in violence. She was born sometime in the 1200s-”

 

“ _ What _ ?” Montparnasse couldn’t help but choke out. It was one thing to hear about 18th century vampires that matched up neatly with the lore with which he was somewhat familiar. But a creature so old- “She’d be…”

“Roughly 800 years old. She doesn’t know the year of her birth, but it was sometime during the Latin occupation of Constantinople, in the middle of the Crusades.”

“Shit,” muttered Montparnasse, trying to even begin to imagine the lifespan of the woman he had met. Claquesous said nothing, watching him, and Montparnasse felt his face heat. “It’s just. She’s really old.”

The barest hint of a smile tugged at Claquesous’s mouth. “I’ve been told to never say such a thing to a lady. Though I believe her sire was alive to remember when Alexander the Great rode through her hometown, and granting it with his name.” 

Montparnasse’s rubbed at his temples, as though he could massage an understanding into his mind. Satisfied he had sent Montparnasse into enough of a shock, Claquesous continued. 

 

“Mardisoir was born poor, in a city that had been decimated over and over again. It’s likely her father was one of the many foreign invaders, but she never knew him. She was unskilled, uneducated, utterly dependant on her own wiles. Some would have called her lucky, to gain steady employment once she reached adulthood, but Mardi was never one to settle easily. She was skimming money from the bathhouse in which she worked, and stealing from the wealthy patrons who left their clothing and valuables in her care. If she was caught, she could have been put to death. Quite a risk for dissatisfaction. When she was eventually discovered, though, she was offered a choice in which she stood nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

The woman from whom Mardisoir had plucked a single pearl had uncanny senses, and caught her red-handed. Nin-Imma, as she introduced herself, offered up two options: be turned over to the authorities, or keep the pearl as her first payment as Nin-Imma’s handmaiden. Mardisoir took the latter - even had she not held Mardi’s life in her hand, she was strikingly beautiful, as sharp as an assassin’s blade, and had the ability to offer Mardi opportunities beyond the tattered walls of Constantinople. It is easy to see how she was able to charm Mardisoir so thoroughly, though I am equally unsurprised Mardi was able to woo her back. It was not long before Nin-Imma revealed the truth of her nature, the revelation coming soon after the start of what would be a centuries-long romance. The turning was mutual, desired so deeply by both women, that I have heard Mardisoir swear one hundred years passed for her in the blink of an eye. 

For four centuries, they never left each other’s side. But even the strongest of passions cool in time, even if love does not quell. They went their separate ways eventually, moving at different paces. Every so often they meet up again, and recreate the passion of their early years. I have had the pleasure of meeting Nin-Imma once before; I cannot begin to understand why Mardisoir chooses to spend more of her time with our current companions instead. However, Mardi has been cast in a maternal role from the moment she rescued a strange duet from a fumbling and difficult existence. 

Even if her role is a forced one, I believe she has a genuine sense of protection of Fauntleroy. Babet and Gueulemer would have managed without her; Fauntleroy would likely have been dead, with a trail of drained and tortured bodies behind them. 

Fauntleroy’s life was difficult and short. They’re extremely young, even now. They were only 16 when they were turned in the year 2000. They were thrown out of their home even younger, reliant on the perversions of men keen to take advantage of a desperate child. Their sire was a client who offered to take them in in exchange for their complete submission to him. They spent the better part of a year drugged up to avoid the worst of what he did to them. What they do remember, they don’t speak of. Their turning, I believe, was presented as just another act of their contract; I doubt they were told what was to happen to them. 

They managed to escape their sire after the fact. Mardisoir came across a scene of carnage - a small group of men had found themselves unfortunately walking near where Fauntleroy had been kept. Mardi found the vicious, terrified fledgeling, and managed to calm them in a way I doubt anyone else could have. Their relationship has a closeness to which I am not entirely privy. Mardisoir has been their protector, their mentor, their mother. It was she who taught Fauntleroy to control their newfound abilities, and how to wield them as weapons. It was she who went with them when they sought out their sire, and helped them destroy him. 

I am lucky to have found such a group. There are more with whom we associate - Bizarro, Brujon, Finistère, Glorieux - transients who stop in when they pass through Paris, but who continue on their way, following change around the world. They too have stories, many of which are brutal and tragic. For many of us, our second lives begin already steeped in pain. It is not often a kind existence - very few choose it willingly. Now you know, Montparnasse, for what you are truly asking. 

I will not warn you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....ta-da! 
> 
> If you want more details you can hit me up on tumblr @feyland - for stuff Claquesous isn't privy to, stuff that isn't his to share, and backgrounds on some of the other PM members who won't make an appearance in this fic. Because I have uuuuuh a lot of thoughts.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drug use, drug overdose, drug dealing, references to childhood trauma and child abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, references to sex, gangs

Montparnasse was quite a while, turning over in his mind the stories Claquesous had told him. He knew Claquesous was watching him closely, though he purposefully avoided the man’s eye as he considered his next words. At last, he looked up at Claquesous. 

“Okay,” he said. “I understand. And I still want in.” 

Claquesous frowned, disquiet working behind his eyes. “This is no club to join, Montparnasse. We are discussing life and death, and undeath and eternity. It is foolish and short-sighted to make such a decision as though it were a simple choice.”

Montparnasse was expecting it, but tone in Claquesous’s voice still made him bristle. “Listen,” said, rougher than he would have liked. “You keep telling me that I don’t know what I’m asking for, and that my life is precious, or whatever. But you don’t know a thing about my life, and barely anything at all about me at all. You know that I like going out to find someone willing to take me home with them. You know I’m too attracted to danger for my own good. Have you maybe considered why that is?”

Claquesous didn’t respond, and his frown did not change. Montparnasse huffed, letting annoyance overtake the panicked desire to shut his mouth. 

“Maybe it would be easier for me to run for my life when I met a vampire if I had somewhere safe to go, or something to look forward to. But I don’t. I can’t go back to where I came from, and the only thing in my future I’m anticipating is having to find a new way to hustle if I’m going to stay alive at all. I’m just- I’m looking for the easiest way to survive.”

He took a breath.

“I spent almost 15 years in foster care, staying with nearly as many families. That’s a really weird feeling, being the hand-me-down kid, because it makes you feel like you’re not a person in the same way other people are. And you know what’s the worst bit? There’s all these movies and books and shit where the orphan ends up adopted by someone rich and loving, or else they’re found by a long lost family member who is also rich and loving. It’s never about a four-year-old not being able to wake up his mother from her last overdose. It’s never about the kids who just rot. 

People have more tolerance for you when you’re little. Some are actually sympathetic for a while, until the kid starts acting out and breaking shit and screaming, and then you send it back because it wasn’t ‘the right fit for your family’.”

Montparnasse was watching Claquesous as he spoke. The creased brow had smoothed out into a blank mask, hiding away any emotions under the facade. Montparnasse wanted to find it enraging; he drug for the anger, but found nothing there.

“I gave up pretty quickly. I wanted to get rid of any expectation of me anyone could ever have. It made it easier to be shipped off again when I inevitably fucked something up too badly. I spent a hot second in just about every town south of Lyon. I didn’t make friends; I barely knew anyone by the time I was sent to live somewhere new. I never had anyone to talk to about, like, my mom, or how I was scared of my new guardian of the week. There was no one to trust with shit like how I was queer- how I was trans. I never said anything to anyone and so it felt like it wasn’t real and- shit.”

Montparnasse scowled, rubbing at his eyes. He never cried in front of people. He struggled to push down the shudder, and the knot in his throat. He tried to picture the swell of pain in his mind, tried to move it to where his anger lay like a pit of magma, to feed it to the flames. He clenched his fists.

“When you age out of foster care, you stop existing to anyone,” he said, shakily. “Even if some case worker was only pretending to give a shit about you, at least they had your name down somewhere. Then you’re not their problem anymore. So I became someone else’s problem. There’s something of a thriving drug trade coming in through Marseille. It’s the easiest business to get into when you’re broke and young and desperate, and also the hardest one to get out of. I started dealing and running drugs for this one piece of shit, making hell of a lot more money than I would have doing literally anything else. I’d get my money, and then spend half of it on the blow I was selling, which would have eventually killed me - maybe that was the point. I was good at dealing, though, and it was easy as long as I didn’t get caught, or gunned down by police. Or set up by my boss because I was disposable. The only reason I’m still alive is because I had blown his right hand man a couple of times. The guy tipped me off that I was about to walk into an ambush as part of the boss’s attempt to start a turf war. So I took the kilo of cocaine I was supposed to be moving, and skipped town. Changed my name. Used up all of my savings on surgery. That was about a year ago. I’m not sure if anyone is looking for me, or if they think I’m dead, or if they’re just too stupid to recognize me without a set of tits, but so far I haven’t woken up to someone about to put a bullet between my eyes. I’m living off of that brick I stole, which is going to run out eventually and I have no backup for when it does. I fucked over my old gang. I’m a dead man if I try to go back. I have no skills, no savings, no opportunities. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, and I’m honestly just… so fucking tired. 

So yeah - maybe I just like the feeling of getting fucked up on vampire venom, but I also like not being dead. And while we’re on the topic of my fucking wishlist? I want a chance to be young without being burnt out already. I want power. I want-” Montparnasse stopped himself, biting his tongue. 

“Tell me,” Claquesous said, quiet and firm, but without a hint of the persuasive honey that he had used before. There was nothing to force Montparnasse to speak, but a sharp desire to share the deep want clawing at him from the inside was so strong. 

“I want a chance at a better life. Everything you told me - you all seem happier now than you were when you were human. Isn’t that true?” He stared hard at Claquesous. 

“Yes,” Claquesous acquiesced. “I doubt it is so for every vampire in this world, but those I know - they have done well in their second life.” 

“I want that,” Montparnasse said, simply. He felt suddenly exhausted, too many details of his own life swirling with the stories Claquesous had told him. His head was too heavy for his body, even as he leaned it back against the cushioning of the chaise. He didn’t expect Claquesous to give in to him, and he knew he must sound stupid and immature to the centuries-old man. A part of him wished, despite the years of fine-tuning his survival instincts, that Claquesous would simply brush off his request and just drain him instead. At least then he would be able to go out with a thrill in his veins. 

Claquesous didn’t move to attack Montparnasse, of course. Straight-backed, his posture did not change, but the air in the room around him seemed suddenly a little stiller.

“Here is my offer,” he said simply. “You will prove there is truth to your claims, your desires to live beyond your human capabilities. If you accept, I will take you as my ward and move your world into the night. You must live in the dark, as though you were already turned. Prove to me you need not be reckless. Prove to me you will not change your mind. If you can do this, in time, I will turn you.”

“When?” Montparnasse said, the word bursting out more demanding than he intended. 

Claquesous considered him. “Let us say three years.”

“Three  _ years _ ?” Montparnasse sputtered. “I’ll be practically middle aged by then!”

The barest hint of something tugged at Claquesous’s lip. “If you desire eternity, you will have to manage your patience. I can think of no better way. In the meantime, I can keep you from physically aging at a human rate. With practice and my own learned self-control, I could drink from your daily. Just a little, enough to satisfy us both. Instead of impairment, you would simply feel a boost to your senses, a delay of aging, perhaps a little more sensitivity to the sun.”

“All despite your better judgement?” Montparnasse said, layering a skeptical voice over the strange stirrings of excitement and fear rising in him.

Claquesous cocked his head. “Perhaps I am questioning the authority of my better judgement,” he said. “You have already disrupted much. I admit I am curious to see what more you can do.”

His tone was difficult to read, and so Montparnasse only nodded, trying to see anything more beneath the carefully crafted mask. Slowly, he got to his feel, carefully crossing the room to Claquesous, knowing he was being watched like a hunted animal. Reaching Claquesous’s chair, Montparnasse extended his hand.

“Shake on it, then,” he ordered. 

Claquesous was silent and still a moment, and then he too rose to his feet. His skin was as cold as ever as he took Montparnasse’s hand, the fingers icy, the grip binding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I just want u to know the backstory was worse but Freckle gave me a side-eye I could feel from across the ocean, so now you get the happy alternative of Montparnasse just finding his mother's body CHEERS. 
> 
> lmao im editing exhausted so like. forgive me pls.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Drug dealing, blood drinking, sexual content ft. blood n' stuff.

It began annoyingly slowly. Claquesous refused to drink from Montparnasse for several more days, citing the overindulgence of his friends and Montparnasse’s need to regain a baseline. Even though the worst of the withdrawal had passed the first day, tremors spilled over Montparnasse’s skin, and a sharp want nearly drove him to begging several times. Claquesous had insisted Montparnasse stay in the house another 24 hours, using his persuasive gaze when Montparnasse objected. Bored, he spent the rest of the night trying to find a book in Claquesous’s library that was both interesting enough to hold his attention, and written in French. He tried his best to sleep through the day, attempting to train his body to align with the deal he had struck. He tossed and turned, at least grateful for the complete darkness the blackout curtains provided. Still, he felt tired and restless by the time night fell again.

When he was finally allowed to leave, Claquesous punctuated the parting with a promise that he would visit Montparnasse the next evening, and every night after that. The night was not cold as Montparnasse stepped out into it, but the words echoing inside of his head made him shiver nonetheless. 

 

Montparnasse’s clients were not pleased by his sudden couple days of silence. 

“Man, I thought you’d gotten picked up,” complained one woman as she quickly traded her cash for the powder Montparnasse had slipped her. “Don’t scare a bitch like that.”

“I don’t get caught,” sniffed Montparnasse. “I just lie low when it’s smart. Maybe you should pick up another gram to tide you over in case I have to do it again.” 

He smiled at her annoyed muttering, and grinned when she actually obliged. 

 

He returned home content, richer, and tired, a few hours before dawn. While his instinct was to fall into his own bed and sleep through until noon, he instead sat down in front of the television, flipping through movie, trying to find something that would do at least until the sun came up. He paused on one, a movie he had already seen, and considered only a moment before he selected it and sat back, his lip curling as he wondered what Claquesous would think of  _ What We Do in the Shadows _ . The film ended just as the first edges of morning light began to climb into the sky, and Montparnasse finally allowed his body to drag him to bed. 

He slept deeply, his dreams soaked in blood. 

 

When Montparnasse woke, Claquesous was in his bedroom.

“Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ!” he yelped when he caught sight of the vampire sitting comfortably in the leather armchair tucked in one corner. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” His whole body felt as though it had been dealt an electric shock, his heart beating almost painfully hard. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

Claquesous seemed unphased. “I’ve only just arrived. I told you I would be here at nightfall,” he said mildly. “I did knock.”

“And when I didn’t answer you thought you would just break in anyway?” Montparnasse said. “I thought you had to be invited.”

“You have already invited me into your home. I do not need another offer. And that invitation has drastically expanded, too. A deal is more than words. The contract allows me access to wherever you are, whenever I wish.”

Still rattled by the unexpected presence, Montparnasse had difficulty pulling his words into thoughts. “It would have been nice to know that ahead of time,” he managed to mutter as he tried to calm his mind, even as he realized several things at once. The room was dark, his curtains keeping out even the most persistent street lights, but Montparnasse could see relatively clearly. Rather than blankets of blackness covering the room, everything was washed in shades of grey despite no obvious light source. He could see Claquesous’s features easily, even from several metres away. 

Even more obvious in the half-dark was that Montparnasse was naked. Cotton sheets pooled around his hips, but his pale torso seemed almost illuminated. He tugged at the sheet, something like self-consciousness knocking annoyingly at his ribs. At the same time, Claquesous stood, and began to move towards the bed. 

“I hope you are ready to maintain our bargain,” he said. When paired with his movement, the voice sounded utterly predatory, and Montparnasse felt the hair on his arms and neck stand at attention. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Though you’ve caught me in a vulnerable position.” He gestured to himself and the bed.

“Hmm,” Claquesous purred, reaching the side of the bed and looking down at Montparnasse. “I was under the impression you enjoyed being at such a disadvantage. And I admit I do enjoy more than just your blood.” 

Montparnasse didn’t trust himself to reply, the words caught in the knot of anticipation in his chest. He acted instead, pushing himself up on his knees, modesty be damned, and reached forward to press his lips against Claquesous’s. 

A low vibration made its way up from Claquesous’s throat, and faster than he could follow, Montparnasse was thrown back on the mattress, Claquesous’s body held over him, their lips still moving together. Montparnasse reached out, wrapping one arm around Claquesous’s shoulders, the other around his torso, and attempted to pull the vampire down further onto him. Claquesous let himself be led, a hand loosely gripping the side of Montparnasse’s face. His mouth was firm as he kissed Montparnasse, his lips warming with the intensity of the pressure. Montparnasse responded hungrily, dragging his mouth open with a whimper when he felt teeth scrape against skin. He responded with his hands, dragging his fingernails over Claquesous’s back, pulling up on the long-sleeved shirt in order to get to the icy skin underneath. 

Claquesous hissed, pulling back, and Montparnasse was halfway through a whine when he realized Claquesous was just ridding himself of the fabric. Montparnasse had not seen much of Claquesous’s body, he realized, and as he raised himself up to touch, Claquesous moved again, effortlessly pulling Montparnasse into his lap. Montparnasse immediately pressed himself close, flinching at the coldness of Claquesous’s skin. Claquesous’s chest was smooth, the skin startlingly soft, the the muscles of his arms flexing as they encircled Montparnasse again. Montparnasse leaned into the touch, raking his fingers through Claquesous’s hair, and grinding down, living for the feeling of his body shifting under Claquesous’s fingers. 

He cried out when fangs pierced the skin on his neck, the noise turning up into a sob as he felt the now-familiar fireworks begin to go off in his bloodstream. Claquesous drew his fangs out, a near-growl rising in his throat, and began to suck at the wound. The pressure was electrifying, and Montparnasse felt himself begin to shake in Claquesous’s lap, his breath coming out in uneven sighs that seemed to spur Claquesous on. 

“Touch me,” Montparnasse gasped into his ear, the words punctuated by a stronger noise as Claquesous immediately obliged, slipping a hand between Montparnasse’s legs. Claquesous’s fingers were smooth and dextrous, but they moved roughly, his other hand keeping Montparnasse anchored in place, drawing wretched noises from him with unrelenting intensity. 

He drew back from Montparnasse’s throat too soon, and the protestation was broken by a groan as Montparnasse fell forward to support himself against Claquesous’s shoulder, the struggle to stay upright crumbling under the shuddered waves pouring through his body. Blindly, he reached down, finding the button of Claquesous’s trousers. 

“Can I?” he choked out, as Claquesous’s fingers moved lower, slipping inside of him. 

Claquesous’s voice was surprisingly strained - Montparnasse realized he hadn’t expected the encounter to affect the vampire as much as it did. 

“It isn’t- It won’t do what you are expecting,” Claquesous warned raggedly. “Physical reactions are...different without blood circulation.”

“You can’t get it up?” Montparnasse said, his laugh turning into a punctured cry as Claquesous’s hand moved in quick, rough punishment. 

“It still feels good,” Claquesous breathed. “Better, even. So please - if you want to touch-” Montparnasse was already undoing the button and zipper as soon as he had the permission, warm fingers finding their mark, making Claquesous match him in the tension of aching pleasure. The movement was instantly gratifying, his hand on Claquesous immediately spurring them both into something of a competition, each attempting to outdo the other in creating the shocks of ecstasy. 

Montparnasse had always been good with his hands.

Even as he ground down on Claquesous, even as he threw his head back, the combination of vampire venom and utterly human sexual intoxication overwhelming him in a blinding cacophony, Montparnasse’s clever fingers did not rest, and he felt as much as he heard the trembling snarl that Claquesous released. 

The haze in his head was not yet cleared when Claquesous flipped him again onto his back, the twisted look on the vampire’s face absolutely ravenous, despite having eaten so recently. Montparnasse tried to raise himself up, reaching for Claquesous, but he was effortly pushed back, his legs taken ahold of instead. Claquesous was almost gentle in parting them, the last of his stony self-control to crumble. He dove between Montparnasse’s thighs like a starved thing, animalistic and wild. 

Montparnasse matched him, the howls and cries scattering into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they just have bloody sex forever the end.
> 
> JK there's more plot coming.
> 
> But also more of Montparnasse coming aaayyy. (that might be a lie idk man)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Drugs & drug dealing, violence, references to sex, blood, blood drinking.

 

Claquesous was good to his word, his control measured, and Montparnasse found the first few months of their deal almost intolerably restrained. Like clockwork, Claquesous would visit him at dusk, slipping into the apartment along with the growing shadows of night. After the first surprising awakening, Montparnasse did his best to be prepared, rising ahead of time to rub the sleep from his eyes and put on a pot of coffee. 

Not every evening began with the same bloody, ferocious sex, though Montparnasse did manage to discover that Claquesous could be coaxed into drinking more if he was distracted by a hand down his pants, or a body shaking in his lap. More often, though, Claquesous was clinical and cool, barely saying a word as he drank his meager amount of blood before stepping back out into the night. He never stayed. 

“Come out with me,” Montparnasse had coaxed one night, having failed to lure Claquesous into bed, but too keyed up from the venom warming his blood to be still. 

“I have no reason to hunt anymore,” Claquesous replied, already standing to leave.

“Not to hunt. For fun. To enjoy the night.” Montparnasse frowned when Claquesous gave no indication that he heard him. “What, do you have something else to do?” he demanded. 

Claquesous simply leveled Montparnasse with an unreadable look.

“No,” he said, before letting himself out. 

Anger bubbling in him, Montparnasse had followed, throwing open the door to his apartment, but finding only the empty staircase and landing. 

He had gone out alone, letting himself be taken home with a stranger for an ultimately disappointing experience born out of spite. He had dragged himself home just before dawn, his pissy mood following him to bed. 

He waited for Claquesous to comment on it, a strange hope that the vampire would notice the smell of pleasure sought elsewhere. But if Claquesous noticed, he said nothing the next evening. He was just as stiff, just as aloof, as he drank from Montparnasse’s throat. For his part, Montparnasse had his head thrown back, letting the slight noises of pleasure that he had come to expect from a feeding to land a little louder than usual, trying to gage Claquesous’s reaction through half-lidded eyes. 

Nothing. 

Claquesous’s parting was curt again, leaving Montparnasse annoyed and on edge. He was trying, he realized, to identify the relationship he had with Claquesous. He was not yet a sire, not quite a lover, certainly not a friend. More of a business relationship, really, and that realization made Montparnasse all the more moody. He didn’t fuck clients - on that he was firm. But he and Claquesous were not negotiating a regular kind of drug, and Montparnasse wasn’t quite certain who the dealer really was. 

Later, though, he was sure of his role as he stepped out into the dark to meet a new client. Montparnasse had been apparently recommended by another buyer. Montparnasse checked the lining of his jacket where he had tucked the cocaine as he approached the meeting point in Montmartre. The weather was turning colder, but even as the wind blew at the back of his neck, he wasn’t bothered. 

A figure already sat on the designated set of steps, the shadow of Sacre-Coeur rising up behind him. The surrounding roads were empty, the darkness swallowing up the yellow light from the street lamps. 

“Serge?” Montparnasse said as he approached the bottom of the steps. 

“Yeah,” the guy said, standing up. His build was short but broad-shouldered, the thinness in his face seemingly out of place on his frame. Still, Montparnasse was cautious as he climbed the steps, wary of the stranger who, as far as he know, could be a serial killer. Or worse, a cop. 

“How much are you selling for?” the man asked, his voice a little strained. Up close, Montparnasse could see the sweat on his lip, and the tremor in his hands. Not a cop, then. Or possibly a cop with a bad habit, which would be all the more dangerous. 

“€70 for a gram, or €210 for an eight-ball,” Montparnasse said. 

Serge scoffed. Montparnasse raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a pretty fucking fair price,” he said acidly. “And mine’s not cut with any shit.”

“Everyone out here saying they got a fair price,” the man muttered, fidgeting. “Bleeding me bloody dry.” 

Montparnasse let him stew a moment, but when Serge didn’t seem to be any closer to closing the transaction, Montparnasse began to get jittery himself. The longer this lasted, the more likely they were to get caught.

“Look, are you buying or not?” he finally hissed, and immediately regretted his tone when the man’s demeanor shifted.

“Listen, kid,” Serge growled, taking a step forward. “How about you hand over a gram as a little welcome present, and then we’ll see if your shit is good enough for what you’re trying to rob me of.

Montparnasse squared his shoulders, ready to walk away from the deal. “I don’t do freebies. And I don’t like it when people waste my time.”

The man’s lip curled into an ugly snarl as he moved faster than Montparnasse expected. With a fierce shove, he had Montparnasse up against the chest-high stone wall that lined the stairs. 

“Give me what you’ve got on you and I’ll let you walk away,” Serge spat, the sweat on his face meeting with the saliva at the corners of his mouth. 

Montparnasse opened his mouth, but only a wheeze came out as he struggled to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. He sucked at the night air, trying to drag it into his lungs. 

The man had just reached an arm back, his hand clenched into a meaty fist, when Montparnasse finally managed to shake his knife into his hand. Serge’s movement had left the perfect opening, then, for the blade to meet with the soft flesh below the ribcage. 

There was a howl as Montparnasse pulled the knife out again, still trapped against the wall. Serge doubled over, his wide frame blocking Montparnasse’s path, but the arms were pulled in, cradelling the bleeding belly. Montparnasse didn’t hesitate, bringing his knee up hard into Serge’s face. He felt cartilage crunch at the force, and heard rather than saw the man’s head hit the stone steps as he fell back. Montparnasse was already running, heedless of the blood on his jacket, his pants, dripping from the blade still in his hand. He didn’t look back, didn’t check to see if he was being followed. Eventually, he managed to click the blade shut, and pull out his phone instead, hands shaking. 

**_Montparnasse:_ ** _ Meet me at my apartment - urgent  _

 

Claquesous was, completely unsurprisingly, already inside when Montparnasse arrived home. Montparnasse said nothing as he stripped off his ruined jacket and threw the bloody knife in the sink. Still shaking, he turned on the faucet, scrubbing his hands as Claquesous looked on quietly from the living room. Unsatisfied, Montparnasse shut off the water with a frustrated grunt, and reached up to grab the bottle of gin on the shelf over his head, foregoing a glass and just taking a burning sip. He swallowed, coughed, and raised the bottle again.

“That isn’t your blood.” Claquesous had moved without Montparnasse noticing, suddenly leaning against the kitchen wall. 

“No,” said Montparnasse rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and flinching at the blood still visible under his fingernails. He put the bottle down, harder than he meant to, the liquid sloshing inside. 

His mind and heart raced, but the look he leveled at Claquesous was focused. “I can’t wait,” he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his throat. “You need to turn me now. I’m not- You’re not going to get three years out of me, not at this rate. It’s a fucking miracle I’ve made it this far. It’s a miracle I made it home tonight. I can’t enjoy any kind of human life if I’m constantly at risk of it ending every fucking day. I’m exhausted, Sous, from being alive. Of being afraid, and powerless and I - I don’t want it anymore.”

Montparnasse turned his gaze away. Whatever he had planned to say, he hadn’t meant to call Claquesous by the nickname that had caught on in his head either. Claquesous said nothing. Montparnasse’s face felt hot. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Claquesous’s eye again.

“You can fuck off after, if you want. You don’t have to be, like, responsible for me, or anything. You can leave me with a letter or something. Or I can just figure it out on my own. I can manage. Just. Please.”

Silence stretched through the small kitchen, the reverberations of tension cutting through air echoed off of the plaster walls. Then, Montparnasse felt Claquesous close the distance between them. He didn’t look up, refused to look up, until Claquesous’s hand found his chin, tilting it back until their eyes met. 

“Okay,” said Claquesous, his voice quiet, but as hard as the steely look in his eyes. “I will turn you tonight.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for blood drinking/blood loss, and what basically amounts to dying

Montparnasse hadn’t expected Claquesous to agree. He stared at him, waiting for the catch - but none came. Claquesous’s face was neutral, calm, but his dark eyes seemed to shine with something Montparnasse couldn’t quite read.

“Come, then,” Claquesous said, and turned, leading Montparnasse to the bathroom. The harsh white light sprung on, washing the room in clinical coldness. 

“In here?” Montparnasse heard himself ask in a voice that was too high in his own ears. 

“Easier to clean up.”

The light was too bright. Montparnasse’s head was beginning to pound. “How- what do I do?” he asked. 

Claquesous turned in the small space, seeming to settle on the bathtub. “In here,” he said. “Try to relax as much as you can. I am going to take more blood from you than I ever have, but I need you to stay conscious as long as possible. You will need to drink from me in order to be turned.” He paused, considering Montparnasse a moment. “You might want to remove your shirt if you hope to keep it.”

“I see, you only agreed to turn me in order to get me undressed,” Montparnasse said, but the joke was shaky, and he was relieved when Claquesous didn’t reply. He slipped off his shirt and climbed into the bathtub, leaning back and gritting his teeth against the cold porcelain. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for...whatever was to come. Instead of teeth at his throat though, he started when he felt a cool finger run down his jaw and come to rest under his chin. He opened his eyes again, looking up at Claquesous who crouched near the bathtub. Claquesous’s usual blankness was interrupted with veins of tension running through his face, something akin to uncertainty worrying at his brow. The hand moved slowly to Montparnasse’s neck, finding the pulse point there. Goosebumps rose up on Montparnasse’s skin.

“I will miss this feeling of your heart,” Claquesous murmured. “But I hope to keep it safer.” His hand slid down, pressing against Montparnasse’s chest, taking in the wild beating. Finally, finally, he tilted Montparnasse’s head to the side, cradling it in one hand, holding onto one shoulder with the other. He leaned in to Montparnasse’s ear.

“I will miss your warmth,” he said simply, and bit down. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline of it all, but even though he had found himself under Claquesous’s mouth dozens of times, Montparnasse cried out, his body going hard with electric tension. He could feel every millimeter of the needle-sharp teeth and the rush of toxic bliss that came with them. He was shaking, hard, his limbs locked up like an hours-old corpse. He felt the pulse of heart that left the wound along with Claquesous’s fangs. 

“ _ Relax _ ,” Claquesous ordered, his voice dripping with intention, and Montparnasse let himself give in to the command, his muscles unclenching bit by bit as Claquesous began to drink. 

Claquesous’s feedings had always been controlled, methodical, even on the nights spent in Montparnasse’s bed. This was not controlled. He attacked Montparnasse’s neck, biting again and again, piercing the skin until blood poured out, hot and deadly. He drank ferociously, animalistic snarls clawing up from his chest and echoing in Montparnasse’s head. 

The calm that had pierced Montparnasse’s senses with Claquesous’s command was holding him down, but underneath it, Montparnasse felt his mind shudder. He was dizzy, so dizzy, and growing more exhausted by the second. His jaw had slackened with the order to relax, but the feeling that he had been robbed of all tension was unnerving and uncomfortable. And so he pushed back against the direction, bending the force first into his jaw and then throughout his body. His hands clenched into fists, and he felt the word that had compelled him shatter. He was breathing heavily, the exertion beyond anything he had felt before, straining, straining, Claquesous holding him down. 

The blood running down his neck and chest was too hot, every drop falling like lava. It was too hot and he was too cold, and he was suddenly so aware of the icy feeling in his extremities. He shuddered under Claquesous’s hands, but the mouth at his throat didn’t stop. Every shake spread more of the venom through his system, the contact with his nervous system meeting with shocks of fire and ice. Black spots were beginning to speckle his vision; he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed anymore. He remembered Claquesous’s warning, though, and blinked, desperately trying to stay awake, leaning into the familiar ecstacy of the vampire toxin being pumped into him. But even as he did, the feeling was growing noticeably different from the usual easy bliss of a regular feeding. As his body was growing colder, the venom in his veins were beginning to burn. For the first time since the night he had first met Claquesous, Montparnasse felt pain bursting through. His lungs felt tight and heavy, until he had to coach himself through the process of breathing. There was a dull ache climbing up his spine, towards the much sharper pain he could suddenly feel on his neck. The nerve endings had awoken, and as Claquesous again pushed his teeth into the flesh, Montparnasse’s body jolted, hard, a long, pained moan tumbling out him. 

“Stay...still…” Claquesous managed to rasp, speaking through the greedy movement of his mouth. His voice was far rougher than Montparnasse had ever heard it.

A wave of agony swept through Montparnasse’s chest, and he jerked and writhed, a high whine breaking off into a silent sob. He tried to lift his hand to grab at the origin point, but he found he had no strength at all. His heart, still banging painfully into his ribs, felt as if it were being shredded to pieces. 

“S-sto-stop!” he gasped out, whatever energy he could have had to pull away from Claquesous long vanished down the vampire’s throat. Claquesous snarled in response, the predator Montparnasse had so stupidly neglected to fear now draining him. 

Claquesous would kill him, Montparnasse realized. Claquesous would miss the threshold at death’s door, and drink Montparnasse dry. Maybe it was a mistake, and Claquesous had overestimated them. Maybe it was his intention all along, to rid himself of the annoying human who couldn’t leave well enough alone. Either way, every one of Montparnasse’s senses screamed at him that he would not leave that tub by his own accord again.

The uncomfortably bright lights of the bathroom had faded, hidden behind the spots in his vision. Everything was growing darker. 

“S-Sous,” he tried to shout but the word barely left him as a whisper. 

He was drowning. Suffocating. He couldn’t...quite...remember how to breath. Searching for his airway, for his mouth- 

He took a breath - and nearly choked on the first trickle of thick, cool liquid running down his throat. Something was pressing against his mouth, firm and cold, and from it, the undeniable metallic smell of blood. Montparnasse swallowed, something in the depths of his instinct telling him to drink or die. His body freezing and fire, and the coolness of Claquesous’s blood was a relief, quenching and warming his wretched body. His neck still ached, his chest still too heavy, but there was something almost alive about the pain. It sang to the blood in his mouth, the depleted source inside of him calling for more. With all the strength he still possessed, Montparnasse forced himself to move his mouth, sucking at the wound on what he vaguely guessed to be Claquesous’s forearm. 

Maybe Claquesous had not yet chosen to leave him for dead in a cold tub. Montparnasse tried to blink, or to open his eyes - he needed to see, needed to know if Claquesous’s intention was clear in his face. Colours swam through his vision. He pushed at them, trying to let his sight surface, like a drowning man trying to find his way out of the depths. 

Even as Claquesous’s face came into view, it was tinged in pink and black. His bloody arm hovered above Montparnasse. His face was near. His fangs were exposed, his lower face covered in blood. His eyes were dark, dark red, and they stared at Montparnasse.

“Sous,” breathed Montparnasse, the last of the air leaving his lungs. 

Claquesous did not speak, and did not blink. He did not move when Montparnasse’s heart stopped. His gaze never wavered as Montparnasse died. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
>  
> 
> jk.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for blood drinking, and drinking one's own blood

Hunger.

It punched through the cool darkness in which Montparnasse’s consciousness was floating, tearing him from the gentle hold of weightlessness and spitting him back out into the painful brightness of the bathroom. Light burned through him - he could feel it searing at his eyes, though he could see nothing beyond the deep crimson that filled the entirety of his vision. He tried to speak, to cry out, to make any kind of sound, but a thickness in his throat blocked the attempt. Blind and mute, his hearing was overpowering him. The dull buzzing of the fluorescent lights had heightened to a scream, as though a swarm of cicadas had entered his ears and were tearing around in his skull. The old pipes hummed and gurgled. The sound of a single car making its way down a mostly empty street echoed in his head as though it were in the next room. A million other microsounds taunted him, bursting through the air like gunfire. It was deafening. 

Scents also fought at Montparnasse’s mind. He could smell the heavy perfume of his shampoo despite it being locked away in its container. The leftover scent of tomato hung heavy in the air beyond the bathroom, a reminder of the meal he had eaten hours before. Particles of pasta sauce clung to his hands, and Montparnasse fought the urge to wretch. It was as though the food had rotted inside of him, starving him further, clinging to the air around him. 

Montparnasse struggled, trying to sit up properly, trying to force his mind into something like sanity. Anything to escape the assaults on his senses. He needed to eat. The panic that had gripped him as Claquesous had relieved him of his blood seemed dim now, paltry compared to the ferocious desperation he now felt. 

He remembered then, with sudden and painful clarity, the sweetness of Claquesous’s cool blood running into his mouth, and Montparnasse’s stomach twisted with excruciating desire. Claquesous was gone - of that Montparnasse was absolutely certain, despite his blindness. Where he had gone, Montparnasse couldn’t even begin to consider. The need for more blood was too overwhelming, too all-consuming, and Montparnasse struggled to his knees, sucking in breath that filled his empty lungs. He forced himself to pause, then, trying to understand the feeling in his chest. Had he not breathed up until that point? It was only when he had consciously made himself inhale had he noticed the organs moving. Beyond the noises and the stenches warring for his attention, there was a strange stillness suddenly all too apparent in Montparnasse’s body. With a shaking hand, he reached up to his chest, and waited. Nothing moved beneath his breastbone. He dragged in another breath, and held it. The burning ache never came, though, never demanded he expel the air in his idle lungs. 

Montparnasse released the breath at last, only for another painful wave of want and hunger to hit him, making him shake as though he had been assaulted. He caught another whiff of the rotting smell coming from the hand still resting on his chest, and he nearly gagged, only just catching the hint of something else hidden underneath it. Beyond the sickening tomato remnants, something metallic caught Montparnasse’s nose. Quickly bringing his arm up to his face, he forced himself to mentally move past the skin, confirming what he had identified. There was still blood in his veins, unmoving and dense, but he could smell it - he had never been so certain of anything. 

There was no sense in Montparnasse when he attacked his arm, only need. Only hunger that clouded not only his eyes but also his mind. He didn’t notice the way his teeth had moved into position in the split second it took for him to bite down, but he didn’t give more than a quick passing thought to the newly-acquired needle-sharp fangs that pierced his skin as easily as though it were made of tissue paper. All of his concentration had zeroed in on the thick, lukewarm blood beginning to ooze out of the fresh wound, no heartbeat to push it forward. It was overwhelming how the first taste of blood on his lips made Montparnasse’s head spin, and be began to suck wildly, without any measure of control. Blood was spilling over his chin, but he couldn’t bring himself to pause even for the stray trickles. The film of red over his eyes was slowly starting to clear as he drank, the bathroom coming into view vaguely, but Montparnasse couldn’t keep his concentration there as he drove his teeth into his arm again. Less was coming out the more he drank, and while he could feel a weight in his belly, the lights and the sounds and the smells around him were just as intense, just as Wrong. 

Montparnasse let out a frantic noise that he just barely registered as being unlike anything he had ever made before, but moved quickly to bite down on his other arm, desperate to do something about the hunger that was still pounding at him like an invisible fist, even as he stomach slowly filled. 

He faintly registered the smell and sound of someone entering the apartment, but he couldn’t look up, couldn’t wrap his brain around the stimuli until his head was yanked back hard by his hair, and he half-blindly swung at the threat, hissing and spitting like a cobra. 

Claquesous was expecting it, though, and he was ready, blocking the attack by the weak and starving fledgeling, and forcing the opening of the bottle he was holding into Montparnasse’s mouth. 

The blood that poured down Montparnasse’s throat was hot, fresh, and still reeking of the living. Immediately, the fight was gone from him, and every last measure of strength clung instead to the bottle. A far away part of him wondered at the first hot tears that ran down his cheeks as he drank - he hadn’t known he hadn’t anticipated them until they began to fall. But the thoughts were blown away like smoke as the realities of a quickly emptying bottle fast approached. Claquesous was fast, though, and Montparnasse only managed one choked sob as his sire replaced the bottle with another, and then another when Montparnasse downed that just as quickly. 

As the last drops rolled onto Montparnasse’s tongue, he managed to swallow them more slowly, trying to savour the taste. His concentration wavered as he blinked, taking in the clarity with which he realized he could see. Slowly, he turned his face upward. He could see, suddenly, the way the bathroom light bounced off the white tile and porcelain, the way particles hung in the air, every stitch in the shower curtain. The sounds and smells that had assaulted him when he had awoken were dimming, appeased by the contented fullness beginning to spread through his body. 

Most vividly, Claquesous knelt on the other side of the tub, watching Montparnasse with expressionless intensity. Montparnasse opened his mouth, testing for the blockage in his throat, and found it had dissipated. 

“You-” he managed to rasp. “Gone.”

Claquesous’s expression didn’t change, but he leaned in closer, handing Montparnasse a fourth bottle, which Montparnasse took gratefully, forcing himself to swallow each sip with purpose.

“You were quick to Rise. I thought I had enough time to hunt for you. I am sorry.”

“I- was so hungry,” Montparnasse said, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean-”

Slowly, as though approaching a wild animal, Claquesous reached out a hand, laying it gently on the curve between Montparnasse’s neck and shoulder. “A fast Rising, a controlled first feeding. Montparnasse, there are very few who manage such things. I suspect you will have a significant strength.”

Montparnasse said nothing, trying to carefully piece together Claquesous’s words. He was tired, he realized, his head and body growing heavy from indulgence. Still, he held onto the bottle of blood in his hands, still terrified it would be ripped away from him. 

“It is nearly dawn,” murmured Claquesous, gracefully straightening to his feet. “Let me help you to bed. You need rest now. 

With ease still remarkable to Montparnasse, Claquesous helped him to his feet, and then lifted him lightly into a bridal carry. Teasing words ran over his tongue, but he swallowed them back, instead leaning in closer to Claquesous’s shoulder. He didn’t feel quite so cold to Montparnasse. 

Claquesous lay him down on the bed, making no other move as Montparnasse tried to settle himself. Despite the thousands of thoughts swirling in his head, exhausting him further, Montparnasse recognized the stance from the first night they had met - anticipation for an invitation.

“Please,” he said, hoarsely, moving to the side to leave room. “You’ll stay?”

Claquesous paused, his mask-like face cracking just a little as something passed over his eyes. Carefully, then, he climbed into bed, laying down just shy of touching the fledgeling.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay.” 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for blood-drinking

Claquesous watched from the shadows, as was so often the case. From his position, invisible against the night-washed buildings around him, he could see clearly every step Montparnasse took. He was intoxicating to watch, as elegant as any creature with centuries of practice, even without the powerful persuasion that came with time and practice. The temptation of Montparnasse was all his own - something with which Claquesous was all too familiar. He was meant to be teaching Montparnasse how to hunt. He had sworn that to himself the moment he had begun to give in. But Montparnasse needed little in way of teaching, and Claquesous was comfortable to watch, the dutiful chaperone. 

Claquesous could hear that attraction teased from Montparnasse’s lips as he pulled a young man around the corner with him, not missing a beat as he let himself be pushed against the wall, his mouth suddenly too busy for words. The man was handsome, annoyingly so - Montparnasse had already formed a habit of choosing his food that way. Something shifted slightly inside of Claquesous, something that might once have been hunger, but it passed quickly, chased away by the hypnotic movement of Montparnasse’s hands, his hips, his head. Claquesous watched as Montparnasse’s face dipped out of view, watched his companion groan into the kisses against his neck. The shift of tension was almost imperceptible, but Claquesous did not miss the second Montparnasse took control, muffling the surprised cry with the heel of his hand against the man’s windpipe, silencing him with impressive ease. Claquesous could see the knees give way, but Montparnasse held his prey up, looking to all the world like lovers caught in a passionate embrace. 

Claquesous abandoned his hiding spot. He made no sound as he moved, but Montparnasse did not seem surprised at all when he appeared beside him. 

“Careful, now,” Claquesous warned, low.

Montparnasse barely acknowledged him, drinking deeply from the man’s throat. The man was alive, Claquesous could tell, the heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird. It would not last long, though, if Montparnasse did not stop soon. A hungry fledgeling could fully drain an adult in minutes. 

“Enough,” he said firmly. 

Montparnasse stopped. He looked up at Claquesous, blood dripping appealingly from his grin. “Did you want a drink?” he asked, as smooth as silk, and Claquesous felt that innate charm kock at his silent chest. 

“Leaving bodies means leaving questions,” he said. “There’s a whole world of blood to taste. If you are still hungry, we can always find more.”

Montparnasse nodded, still smiling, letting go of the man who slumped down against the wall, entirely forgotten. Claquesous couldn’t help but marvel at the ease in which Montparnasse was able to walk away from a still-living person. It was a struggle for most young vampires, whose first years were so frequently painted red. He had heard of sires being torn apart when they got between a meal and the raw strength and need of their fledgelings. It seemed, though, that the thrill of the hunt was the greatest prize to Montparnasse, his elegance and arrogance intertwining in effortless control. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a taste?” Montparnasse purred, closing the distance between them. His fangs were still out, dark and wet, as he pressed his mouth against Claquesous’s. Claquesous left his restraint go, letting fangs scrape, and iron run between them. Pressed together under the cover of night felt every bit like a victory, and a promise. Centuries of a quiet life were beginning to stir awake again, sparking with raw charges of anticipation as powerful as the ever-growing bond between fledgeling and sire. 

Even as blood coated his tongue, Claquesous’s hunger was growing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end!
> 
> (For now - gonna probably end up writing a sequel to this guy.) 
> 
> but uh maybe this was rushed by also I leave for Paris in like 10 minutes sooooo
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


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